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Copyright, 1907, 
by Louis M. Elshemus 



FRAGMENTS 

AND 

FLASHES OF THOUGHT 



ALSO 

LOST LOVE 

AND 

POEMS AND BALLADS 

r//s *Sj louts / 

By 

Louis M. Elshemus 

Author ol " The Poet," "About Girls," " Mammon/^etc., etc. 



Born 1864 



o ^ | ^oiTra - JUIT ~X.uSic. | - . o 




o^ I vhrvfftmmensmss.l o 



Eastman Lewis 

304 East Twenty-third Street 
New York 



LIBRARY of CONGRE! 
Two Copies Recetvea 

NOV 13 (90? 

Copyright Entry 
CLASSY XXc f/o, 

copy 8, 



•-?S* 



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(EontetttB 



Fragments 

GE 

Praisings ; • • • J 2 

A Hymn | [-..- 49 

To the Moon : 54 

Wild Moments • • • 57 

The Poet , • • 6i 

Sketch of a Warm Morn ,.,,..••... 62 

Young Antoinette 65 

Raphael , • • 68 

At Bellingona v 69 

Cadiz, Spain 7° 

How Ideas Come to Us 7° 

Contentment 73 

A Note 73 

Impromptu 73 

Barren Art 74 

Impromptu 74 

A Xote of September 74 

Women 75 

A Tear 75 

Lines 76 

Flashes 76 

A Mood 77 

A Dream 77 

Impromptu 7$ 

Heard in a Dream 79 

Impromptu * 80 

Strange 80 

The Dreamer 80 

Quatrain 81 

Lines 81 

At Yuma 82 



PAGE 

A Lilt 82 

A Lull in Song 83 

To Shelley 84 

Jealousy 85 

Quatrain 85 

Rattle Snakes 86 

A Note 85 

Morning Feeling 86 

Peace 86 

Perfection 87 

Alvarados Vale 87 

At Arrow Head, Hot Springs 87 

Agnosticism 88 

Flirtation 88 

Cans't Thou Tell Me? 89 

Dry River Beds 89 

At Morn 90 

The Humming Bird 90 

The Poison Oak 90 

The Tide 91 

A Desert-Hill 91 

Zeilen 91 

Questions 92 

Lignes 92 

Impromptu 93 

Notes 94 

The Poet 94 

Song 95 

Lines 96 

Preposterous 96 

Impromptu 96 

In Africa — Northern 97 

Song 97 

R-r-r-revenge 97 

While Walking 98 

Night Wail Fantasy 98 

Jottings 103 

An Meine Liebste 104 

Stray Notes 105 



PAGE 



Impromptu 106 

L'Art 107 

At Irvington 107 

Resignation 108 

Impromptu 109 

Query 109 

Novels and Poetry no 

A Fancy no 

To Ella in 

To a Girl in Cars in 

A Thought 112 

A Lilt 112 

Beauty 113 

Impromptu 113 

Raffaelle 113 

Lines 1 14 

Impromptu 114 

The City's Boon 116 

Query 117 

Rime 119 

Lines 119 

The Woodlands ". 1 19 

Lines 120 

The Ocean 121 

Recollection 121 

Emy 122 

Written in Railroad Coupe 123 

The Waterfall 124 

At Geneva Lake, Suisse 127 

The Mind 128 

A Fragment 129 

Life 130 

Query 131 

Ode to Evening 132 

Lyrics 133 

To Shelley 134 

Reverie 134 

Tuberose Richness 135 

Man 135 



PAGE 



Contentment 136 

Dieux 136 

Song 137 

Ballad^ 138 

Dej ection 139 

Winter Night 140 

Innocense 140 

Again Innocense 141 

To a violinist 141 

Sweetness : 142 

A Curse 142 

Impromptu 143 

At Night 144 

A Mood 144 

Woman 145 

Impromptu 145 

Dirge 146 

Impromptu 147 

Flashes of Thought 147 

Lines , 148 

In the Adirondacks : The Brook 149 

Impromptu 150 

A Little Child 151 

Einsamkeit 152 

Impromptu 153 

A Child 153 

When the Air Grows Colder 154 

Lines 155 

Notes 156 

A Simile 158 

Poetry's Value 158 

Solitude 159 

To Womankind 159 

Du Nacht 160 

My Moods 160 

A Lilt 161 

Music 161 

A Flash 161 

Strange 161 



PAGE 



A Change 162 

A Wish 162 

Foundation 163 

Evolution 164 

Consoling Thee 165 

Fire Writing 166 

A Mother's Eye 167 

Sun Picture 168 

Impromptu . . • 169 

A Quandary 170 

March Wind 171 

O Night 173 

Proem 176 

Song 176 

Interlude 177 

Love 178 

To My Love 179 

Perambulation 179 

Ocean Orizons 180 

Interlude 181 

A Cockle 182 

Wool Gatherings 183 

A Song 204 

Does Love Exist ? 206 

A Song 207 

Song 209 

Mockery 210 

Love's Lute Lies with a Rift 211 

Longing 216 

The Bell Buoy 217 

Song — Melancholy 218 

To John Field 220 

Loneliness 221 



PAGE 



A Momentary Thought 222 

A Thought 223 

Rays of Moonlight 224 

Evening 225 

Disappointment 227 

Elegy on a Seemingly Lost Friendship 228 

Wrong 239 

Across the Street .- . . . 240 

Asmanshauser 241 

Seyssel-Wine 242 

The Lover's Morning Hymn 243 

Philip J. Bailey's "Festus" 244 

Strange, Strange 245 

On Reading Milton's "Comus" 247 

To Milton's Italian Sonnets ...-.< 249 

Milton 250 

Nocturne 251 

A Sign of Rain 253 

Gold 253 

A Walk 254 

Mood 256 

Life ! 257 

Isis 261 

The Epic of the Thunder 262 

Where Is Libertv ? 264 

No One Thought God's Work to Praise 265 

A Fantasy 270 

Sonnet 279 

Scents : 280 

To a Young Poet 281 

Inspiration 281 

Baby Louise 283 

What the Mirror Tells Me 285 

A Flash 286 



PAGE 



Ballad of Leo's Self-Death 287 

A Ballad 296 

Rough Riders of the World 300 

The Woes of Greatness 304 

To the First Fire-Fly 315 

The City in the Sea 317 

War Pamt 319 

To a Sweet Maiden's Eyes 322 

Lyric 3 22 

Love 323 

To an Estudiante 325 

Song 327 

Otto Hegner 328 

Music 329 

"Carmen" 330 

The Bliss of Dreams 331 

Ballad 334 

Is the Godley Among Mankind ? 337 

Sonnet 339 

Music 340 

Greatness 346 

To the Scientists 347 

Extasy 348 

A Hymn * 349 

A Fragment 350 

Vigilance 355 

Who Understands Greatness ? 356 

Polycrates Influenced by Anacreon 357 

Slander 359 

Ditty 360 

Sonnet 361 

Music Is Vaporous 362 

Wooing a Virgin 363 

To a Sweet Maiden's Eyes 364 

Fancy's Conception of Genius 364 

My Epitaph 365 

The Watersnake Speaks 366 

Faded Flowers 367 

Forgetfulness 373 



PAGE 



Memories 374 

Question 375 

During a Rain-storm 377 

Short Recollection of My Home: Laurel Hill.. 37% 

In Nature Dwells Contentment 382 

Whip-poor-will 3^4 

In Reply to : "The Desire of Nations" 386 

Lilian's Eyes 39 1 

Une Melodie 393 

Song 394 

Recollection 395 

Reverie 390 

New York 397 

Sadness 398 

In California 402 

Stillness 403 

While Gazing at the Cloudy Moon 404 

Science — Fair Heritage to Man ! 405 

Spirit Is Indestructible 407 

An Elegie 408 

Chanson • • • • 4 J 6 

The Goddess of Beauty 417 

To My Hannah ! 418 

How Love Doth Change the Mind 419 

The Mountain Swallow 422 

A Mystery 422 

The Brooklet's Elegy 425 

After Visiting F. S. Saltus's Monumental Grave. 432 

The Dreary Rain 433 

Triumph 434 

The Nook 436-467 

To a Virgin 468-499 

The Cruelty of Money 499 

Marriages 501 

Some Minds 503 

The Snow , 504 

Autumn 5°7 



Fragments 

and 

Flashes of Thought 




12 Fragments 

PRAISINGS . 

(1884) 

LUCINDA. 

O, come, my maid, so true and dutiful — 
Come, dress my streaming locks that sparkle 

and seem 
As flax, new-laved in streams of yellow waves 
Where scents of lemons fringe the purl-specked 

shore — 
And pomegranates toss their blood-red sheen 
Upon the gold of oranges. — Come, tie 
Those willful, flawing braids with sheathed 

bast 
Yet bearing in it whispers of a playful wind 
That wearied the long solstice days where 

Chloe 
Mused scenes of poet's long forlorned song — 
Come string the looser curls with tendrils thin 
And mind the frontlets — they must seem 

delude. 
Insensate breathings — for the fillets fair 
Must so inweave the shadowier golden locks 
To shed upon them a soft lustre — that 
Irradiates beams of warm sapphire — oh, Maid, 
The amber moon is softest sheened when blue. 



Flashes of Thought 13 

Of sunset-gazing sky yet thrills the vales 
Of vines, and oleasters and piments. 
Lo ! — Sweet, my maid, 'tis bathing in retreat 
Sheltered by shadows cool of sycamores — 
Such oft we saw round pools nigh Damiette — 
In Egypt — sacred land of Pharaoh — 
And Moses ! Here in silentest seclusion — 
Where descants purl as murmurs of the fount, 
And naught annoys — where rustlings of the 

leaves 
Seem as banterings of the fays neat-nestled 

there — 
The breezes crack the blooms and volatile 
The odors ooze — transparadising all. 
Maid! bathing here, as we have bathed — oh, 

joy! 
A goddess never felt the balmy air. 
More sweetly ! — come — slow-lace my shoon — 

and while 
In levitine labor lost, a song may speed 
Thy willingness to assist a woman — like 
To thee — but queenly standing all before 
Thy low-bent beauty-form. In moment seems 
A thought — a vagary blown as the fume 
Waylaying winter's icy speed — and shedding 
Sweet dust into those snowy eyes. Now lace 
My silken shoon, that clasp my ankle, tender 
Rosed — as the bell-flower of the Judas-tree. 



14 Frag m e n t s 

MAID. 

Thy song will quiet the loud winds — the birds 
Will perch upon the tender twigs and listen, 
But the low murmur of the fountain sheer 
Will modulate to thy dear voice — the breeze 
Will waken, and cradle in its nacre-beds 
Thy mellifluent-song — and all will wind 
Their sweetened paths within the shell of my 
Flushed ear! O, sing, o Lady sing! I listen. 

IvUCINDA. 

'Neath nard, 'neath vervain and 'neath Cassia 

The birds live boon, and live true and chaste ; 
'Neath lofty jewel-skies, the lovely 

Serve kings — the tenderer must waste. 
Birds, swooning in that fragrance 

Have none to rule their pleasures — 
Eyes, seeking for a servant — 

Have all to plenish treasures ! 
Would Io's bird bid Ibis, orning 

Its many eyes with oriental sheen — 
As sweet Arbella asks for young Sofia — 

To drape her waist w T ith damaskeen ! 
It glories in its splendours 

More beauteous no other feather — 
To hide God's fairest creature — 

Two virgins plague together. 



Flashes of Thought 15 

MAID. 

Mistress, the words fast welling in your soul 
Have crowned the melody with deathless 

thoughts 
While kneeling all before thee, as thy dearest 

maid 
The more I willing am to render service 

true 
To thee ! For, all my heart may say, is that 
Thou art the perfect — while I live to do 
For thy perfection, which, without me, would 
Have faded as the incomparable flower-bloom 
Withers, if the all-tending tears of nature 
Moist not the herb, that help the strength and 

growth 
By shunning wiltering and decay. And so, 
Mistress, are work and labor set for each to 

do- 
Handmaid and mistress, so the willing worker, 
And high-inspired, whom none may equal. 
And nature, ever serviceable to the Word 
Of God ! ... So think I, Mistress, therefore 

deem 
Thyself not proud for having me — nor have 
A pity for me in thy heart — but know 
Thy loftiness encourages a lowlier maid 
To be thy servant — she w,hose hands are deft 
For work, well loves to perform what those 

with soul 



16 Fragments 



& 



And pensive thought, may find annoying 

them— 
Dear Mistress, and the moon rides leisurely 
Around our sphere, yet ministering to wants 
Of earth — and earth without the moon would 

waste. 

LUCINDA. 

And yet the weeds have fragrance and may 

bloom — 
With petals showy and of fairest hue — as thou 
My own! mayst give the sweetest praise to 

songs 
Of lofty minds — mayst speak to those above 
Thee, as thou wert their counsellor. I know 
Of nasty herbs to burst their flowerets 
With unpretentuous splendours — so out-bloom 
Some garden-plants, that droop their scentless 

weights 
Before the goldiest pagods ! O, fair Maid 
The golden spangles, serpenting a vermeil 

wrist — 
Are wroth not when they clasp the veins 
Of those that stoop and aid a mortal clay 
To breathe this oddest life — the value set 
Upon the jewels is the prize — not the flesh 
And soul, that should be asked for — vain, O 

vain 
Our mortal charms! forfeits for immortal 

ones ! 



Flashes of Thought 17 

Hast laced my shoon! O, take this kiss, im- 
print 
Upon a girly brow, whose musing chooses 
The tender flowers, strewn upon the fields 
Of maidenhood! Ah! maidenhood! O, gaze 
A-through yon glittering avenue of aloes — 
And see thy path neat-shaded — flecked with 

gold— 
So thy maid-days dream on, unconscious — deep 
Within the dark recesses, where coy freshness 
Ycleped by Angels, Virtue, giddy springs ! 
O, maidenhood ! 

MAID. 

Thy voice the inner sighings 
Of reeds that fringe the azure Nile — thy gaze 
Streams as the lovely cloud, at gloaming, when 
The Ibis-trains, string coral-like, with bend 
And wave, to the red West — where the dead 

sea 
Its headlands lone above the sunset looms — 
What brows of luxuriant mountain — or of 

flowered hill — 
With Isabel curls cowled — and fillets flared 
With lurid fire — resemble thine — as thou 
That melodious memory hast uttered low. 
O, if such moves thy heart — and heaves thy 

breast 
With past-emotion sad — how tearful then the 

tales 



18 Fragments 

To weave them, recollections urgent strive 
To inspire — how with deepest feeling clad 
Thy plaints and disappointments dun— how 

brimmed 
With rapturous woe thy life — O, tell, fond 

Mistress, 
O, tell, what vision rash upreared within — 
To falter thy strong tongue, as drooping lily — 
To seem thyself depressed — with languishment, 
Glow-winding round thy beauteous sinuous 

form ! 

IvUCINDA. 

And oft' I heard the doe its wooing fail — 
When through the leaves a murmur fell, liquid, 
That purled as though a long-remembered 

sound 
Of lost entrancement ! Within the glare of 

even 
O, oft' the luridness of phantom-thought 
Stole far without — and seemed an endless 

chain 
Of diaphanous dreams — propinquant musing — 
In farthest depth soft-evanescent ! So 
Fair Maid, my voice and gaze may alter tone 
When uttering sounds in dream of maiden- 
hood, 
And with my sandals tied — O follow me 
To yon cool fountain, at whose shadowed brink 
The savoury grasses sleep and fatten lush — 



Flashes of Thought 19 

There will the trickle of drops — the plashes on 

pool, 
Canorously invite my dreams to them — 
Commingling — as rapt strains from lyre and 

lute. 



O, maidenhood ! When morn within her case- 
ment 
Prepares with spangle and with argent-comb 
Her auburn locks, to wave around her face 
Flushed as the poppy, fire of an Autumn-field — 
Glowing as rippled bay — where maples eru- 

besce 
And beeches pink with vividness as youth — 
When morn her rosy vestments shakes and 

shows 
Her blooming, bending limbs, there seems 

withround 
Our eye-encompassed sphere sweet sound — 
As dulcet as a virginal, whom Agnes 
Mellifluently sways to choral lays — 
There singeth Nature sweeter than at morn — 
Or when the midnight husheth at her song — 
When through the moonbeams waver anthems 

low — 
O, Nature is in her sweet maidenhood — 
There glow the airs — and birds in freshness 

pipe 
Whose carols sweet out-tune those rhapsodies 



20 Fragments 

Of did — when by the meadows flowered and 

fat- 
Young fauns and satyrs oaten-flutes swift 

blowed — 
And reeds fast coaxed their shrilly fifing flow 
While round the slender olives their sweet 

nymphs 
Such dances wound, to glow their beaming 

eyes 
And make their ivied tresses whirl so wild ! 
O, Nature then is maiden-innocent ! 
And the airs are a symphony of joy — 
Whose strains are garlanded with gladness 

jovial — 
And melodious songs are heart-beats of that 

Sylph 
Soft Aganippe — coolness of Helicon. — 
'Tis such, my lovely maid, alacrity 
Of days and long years . when our mind is 

musing 
Without the consciousness of self, that effects 
Our cogitation lone — 'tis such the pureness 
Of blood and soul — when passion doth not pol- 
lute— 
Nor when the doubt doth creep withround our 

brow ! 

MAID. 

O, Mistress — as the Druidess upon 

Some Lesbian cliff thou starest — or as where 



Flashes of Thought 21 

Below the wolds of fir-trees — far away. 
A Siva-guarder widens her lashes black — 
To spell a Cobra with Phrenetic gaze — 
Magician-wise; . . . And now thy tears — 

blue dew 
Of some soft-skied morn of thought — spring 

up— 
And bead thy bright'ning cheek — as bells of 

dawn 
Slow-move adown the lit-up zenith ; say ! 
O, say ! dispell thy musing mood — relate 
As through the even Aeol flows — and sings 
To Philomel-evangel, gladdest known 
And ever heard — relate what so thy woe 
Aroused to make thine eyes seem dreamy 

springs 
Where deepest sentiment lies lone and sad. 

kUCINDA. 

Dispelled ! 
Those thoughts of mine that heave my 

woman's bosom — 
And bring up tears, when thinking on the 

hours 
Of frolick-maidenhood ! 

As Morn to Day 
So Maid to Woman — O, the change ; the fresh 
Green, vivid scene — the glow of heat and 

mood ! 



22 Fragments 

Those tender, frisksome hedge-spent hours — 

those full 
And thoughtful times of expectancies and 

woes ! 
Yet as the moon is languid with the sultri- 

nes — 
So woman patient dreams — yet as midday 
Its central rays with torpor darts, our thoughts 
Are passionately drawn to child and husband ! 
Those wistful orbs, so round and black — un- 
loose 
Their spell — O, Maid, dream not of woman- 
hood! 
Apace Time drives the happy lass into the gold 
Of mulierdom — unconscious in its sparkle 
The waiting beam inveigled is — and soon 
Maid's passion ekes to wilful desire for man ! 
Coy passion of the maid ! Sweet sign and test 
That adolescense breaks upon the margin 
Of childhood's mountain-sea — to bear the 

blood 
With tempest and tearing through the tangled 

wolds 
Of girly giddiness and maiden's, tempters — 
Till in a crystal lake with distant vista 
Of cherished child blesst days her womanhood 
Dreams, as the sacred Hindoo waters, there 
Where Mansa flows, to fill them, with such 

calm — 
To purify pollution — : thrill thorned brow — 



Flashes of Thought 25 

Outburst of passion's turbulent pool — when 

heart 
Beats not — nor the grim sense of love runs 

riot — 
But when, unconscious of such mood — the 

limbs 
So lissom, firm and sweet, tremble, inoffen- 
sively 
As oleasters through the chilly April morn — 
As morn-glories shivering in Selene's beams. 
Then, as the flames that shine fair Naples, rise 
The heavings of our innocent bosom bare 
And we reflect — as in sprinkling air, the 

drooped arum, 
Or when the Sarabande, so saturnine 
And slow, plays measuringly — fair eyes 
Of black look pensive and deeper beauty- 
streams 
Of hair stray all upon undraped shoulders 
And fall on breasts — and loll on folded limbs. 
O Maid ! Thy youth is passed — to know of 

age 
More fruitful years alone — to learn thy future 
Alone thyself must learn to see, think, feel ! 

MAID. 

Tell of thy passion — and if inception's glow 
Such dreamings roused — thy passion's actual 
strain 



24 Frag m ents 

Must sing exuberantly — as with horn 
Of Almathea, with amaranthine-flowers gorged 
Sprite Iambi chanteth to the surging stream. 
O, Mistress, as those days of infancy 
When round the almond gardens, where in 

plaint 
The rebeck rustled blooms of golden petals — 
And rested on a lemon-littered lawn — : we sat 
In company sincere — so seem thy words so 

apt— 
So flowing as the breeze when Odalesques 
Their dances scent, to be to me those olden 

days — 
When listening eys surprisingly wide oped — 
Rose-nostrils quivering, eager all to the vivid- 
ness 
Intense excitement to imbibe — and hold ! 
Tell, tell ! And thy smooth strains shall cling 

to me 
As I thy maid clings to her mistress fond. 
Tell, tell ! Thy perfumed praise will soothe my 

sadness 
And make my blood flow, calm as Indus- 
dream ! 

LUCINDA. 

Ay, sycophants are all ill-justified 

To dupe thy lovely thought, and move thy 

tongue — 
Yet as a colt that neigheth in response 



Flashes of Thought 25 

To its own mother's call — let flattery 

Not knit a woof immuring lightly those 

Pure gushes of emotion, leaping forth 

Into the breath of praise, licit, sincere ! 

If praise thou meanest, well, my Maid ! And 

not 
The golden breathed sky of day-fall may serve 
To swell the just-intended eulogy — 
But in the skies, seek beauteous similitude 
To tender truest compliment to deed 
Or thought, upright or virtuous ! 

The bird 
That warbleth ' through the lemons when the 

piffero 
Adown the calm lake soother shrills, to God 
Intenser thanks outpours, than when the knight 
Of glozing lip, his paramour with kiss 
And angel-troped answers tribute vows ! 
With praise the heart exults — it animates 

itself — 
Upheaves — the labial tirade centered proud 
Within a sparkling thought — is as the meteor — 
Sublime of vision — devoured in the All ! 

MAID. 

I praised — not meanly wished to call to ear 
That thou hadst spoken as the mime, who 

walked 
The rostrum for an adulation's smile — 



26 F r a e tn cuts 



6 



Nay, thy deep syllabels have penetrated swift 
Into that vestal sanctitude, the heart — 
[Mysterious — felt, and lost — and there caught 

flame 
To fire my tongue with panegyrics pure — 
Glow thee with praises pertinent. 



LUCINDA. 

And we 
Reflect ! Hath poet ever strung a chain 
Of living words, to wreathe the slender neck 
Of love's pure passion ! Propertius sang of 

Lesbia — 
Mylytha gave her beauty to Solomon — 
Sly Borgia famed her fetid heart — Boleyn 
Recks not for other wives — our Dante soared 
To Heaven — and saw not what true passion 

wore ! 
Cervantes, in facetious fray, longed to prove 
The vulgar bend — he who by fairest shepherds 
His fancy flowered — Florian the tender- 
hearted — 
Usurped loose fiction's plenteous store — and 

haloed 
Each passion-haunted clay — reality 
Beneath the oak of modesty grew mirksome — 
And fell a prey to glowing rays of falsest 
Figments art's mind doth dwell — as sun doth 
dart 



Flashes of T h o u g ht 27 

Its rays, what may they hide! And Chaucer 

wise — 
And Spencer, soft of feeling, delicate to 

women — 
Of passion paint what staid propriety 
Permits — Boccacio impertinent 
And base of mind, incites to lustiness — 
So Shakespeare, though his sweeter strains 

effect 
Prompt reconcilement, while his morals good 
Flash in us thoughts and wisest counter- 
action — 
Eschew the evils shown ! High Milton had 

wished 
To better his lewd age by virtuous life — 
But his sweet verse doth tell not passion's 

tale— 
Nor beameth forth the true beatitude of hours 
Spent holily. My Maid, nowhere wilt thou 
Thine eyes engross in vision trusty and deep 
In verse. But list — and my couth voice, grown 

wise, 
Shall murmur, as the whispers through syca- 
mores, 
What I, as woman, now may know of maiden ! 

>■< >|c s|c ;<c sjc ?¥ 

O, often by the azure sea I sat 

With one who cherished my young company. 

And while the glory of the even shone — 

As some harp-story by lank hands struck fair — 



28 Fragments 

And while the curlew fled the mossed cliffs 
That echoed lorn the ocean's inner moan 
My eyes the beauty of the sky, and glow 
In innocence had stolen ! Then a look — 
Young passion purled — and as the quivering 

aspen 
When Zephyr sprinkles zest, in Naxos fumed — 
My delicate frame froze and it burned ! 

Still nescient 
Of man, and what the hiatus was between 

us — 
My mind with fear felt what my frame con- 
tained, 
And from those pure-spoken hours methought 

and thought ! 
So venal venery twined round me — slung 
In intricate vines, with beautiful fruit bur- 
dened — 
Whose tangles often pressed too warmly me — 
Yet froward in my nature. Taught by those 
Unknown deep signs, that herald and purvey 
To woman what she is, my frame, by thought 
And reverie secluded, rose from out 
Its subjection to wild passion — and moved with 

mind — 
As the wind's fury finds its sanctioned sway 
Through law of universe ! And when our 

mood 
As in the May, the blooms burst beauteously 
With full voluptuousness, and smile of gods — 



Flashes of Thought 29 

Betrays the sooth that blood not ever quells 
Its broils and cursive turbulency — but pours 
In insuperable violence its passionate gushes 
Informing the incapability and inuse 
To subjugate through tersest holiness 
Blood's mastership ! O, Maid ! as storm 
When the large moon unknown doth hide from 

us 
Doth swell the gulches — inundates the plain — 
And roars the mountain brooks — and thrills the 

friths 
With ever-seething sigh — so in frail woman 
When those unproved flowers liquid burst, and 

free 
And fitful flow — passion ekes — froths — de- 
sires ! And she 
Sighs, craving — yearning what such actuates — 
What such ungoverned work doth benefit — 

what urged 
Its function, and what meant its hidden charm ! 
O, when the aloe wept — the cypress chilled 

the grave — 
And while the blue sea whispered o'er the 

fumes 
That rose above yon garden, Orient-strown 
With petals rich, and leaves of scarlet-hue — 
Blue-green, and such the grass shows when the 

sap 
Of Spring the clorophyl doth brighten! such 
Yirescense as the sky at close of Autumn day — 



30 Fragments 

When blow the cold, far horns and sling the 

clouds 
With iceberg-blue and shade them russet- 
grey— 
O, while the whispers of the blue sea dreamed 
Where I, with fantasies enticed, saw far 
The albatross sail, as the cloud at dayfall 
Sails the pale kiss of sea and sky and seems 

a sail — 
With tender recollections, (fond associates 
When woman wears herself with woe and 

weaning,) — 
Methought of mulier's meed aft' sufferings ! 
I mused on moments of our lives, when pain 
Imparteth patience — wrong desire deludes 
And glows what patience awards, when 

through 
Long longing — mickle means expedient proved 
We felt Heaven's breath lave soothingly — we 

knew 
That hours of passionate waiting effulgence 

kindles ! 
We knew the appositeness of sincerity 
To natural law — and reaped aft troubled days 
Of continence, that happiness that man en- 
genders 
When in the nuptial bliss of love the tie 
Of lasting love is earthly pledged — to beam 
One far time one true ray serene in Heaven ! 



Flashes of Thought 31 

MAID. 

Mistress, the pool is pealing and gold curls — 
And silver ripples cradle in magnificence- — 
The far hill sheens — the trees are glorying ' 
In lights, transcendent like morn's glistening 

skies ! 
Albs tremble in the airs — voices hymn there — 
Angel-choirs they seem! A thrill" of extasy 
Rushes through each rich vein, and my brow 

glows 
With brightness inconceivable to other's sight ! 
Mistress, harp on! invisible such harp! 
Harp, token of a Seraph — taught to strike 
Its strings of magical astringency 
As breezes spring — with facility untutored 
To cadence harmonies sublime, enrapturing 
The man, whose hand and head are born to 

bear 
The weight of tool and passiveness. O harp — 
And passion shall in purity prevail 
Amongst the maidens who to its song listen — 
And when our bodies, lissom, supple as the 

nymphs — 
Evince such cyprian moods and cursive sooth- 

ings, 
Thy song shall make us seem as Vesta veiled, 
Or as that goddess, whoso sullied died ! 
Sway, sway thy song — teach more to live for- 
ever ! 



^2 Frag m e n t s 

LUCINDA. 

Disturb not me, where yon embowered pool 
With vines of purple flowers, frutescent fruits 
As gold as the true ore in veins of rocks 
That guide the gorge to Oregon — way far 
In land of promise and of high emprise — 
America ! — and slender trees with blooms 
As the pure cotton milky-white, such stray 
Fiduciously around yon pool — the gem 
As diamond-rare, of our garden. Maid ! 
With thee I hold importunate discourse — 
Xor shunning the rash pink and crimson on 
Thy cheek, nor the swift passion, unconsciously 
Undamned to rush o'er bank — drown the 

shrubs 
As sentinels there — but with intention noble 
And the deep wish to spur deft thought 
My strains to thee shall flow as torrent's terror 
Unmindful of the frail stem, bending lorn 
O'er the low bed of mountain-stream. 

There bathed 
I oft ! But one soft day, when from fair Sicily 
Blows Aeol, soothing, and with freshness cool- 
ing all — 
While in the deeper blue of pool my haunches 

trembled — 
And ludicrously shrunk in their round beauty- 
shape — 



Flashes of Thought 33 

There shone two sparkles within yon gutty 

bush — 
Yon bush whose leaves are glossed, -and pearls 

as studs 
On tiara of long-dead goddesses triumphant — 
With vascillating glitter their richness deepen, 
And whose round smallness shows the rubicond 
Of scattered berries. — As the hart in tall 
And bending rushes hid — where ever and anon 

the snipes 
With piping query shoot the lower air — 
And mallards, and the Rouen, pied of feather — 
Rush the low sedge, and quacking, bend the 

reeds 
To gain their covert nest by rock and shade — 
Doth startle, when white spots rustle low and 

quick 
The woodland's shrub of briers — leap and gore 
Their tusky teeth to tear the speckled hide — 
So trembled I — impulsively borne fleet 
To plunge within the pool or splash the green 
Cyanean lyn to cower 'neath the jessamine — 
But nought my quivering frame performed — 

endeavored — 
For with persuasive speech those two glow- 
lights 
Wooed me to stilly sand — and with such flow 
Of lovely magniloquence our noble men 
In amorous answers show — my ears were 

lulled— 



34 F r a g w> e n t s 

The waters mirrored what of me was charmed. 
And what immovable! Yet in the deepest 

green 
Those eyes alluring — albeit truthful — glowed — 
Their stare prolonged. "Soft whispers only, 

Xymph ! 
"Sweet dialogues that touch the sense of beau- 
teous thought. 
"Deft purposes of tongue, to check the steeds 
"Of passion — tame the tempting movements 

low 
"That stay the blood's impetuosity !" 
So warbled he, who hidden saw me bashful, 
In modesty and half-scared innocense ! 
As the coy gold-bird, when the lime tree's 

boughs 
It trembles with its brilliant trillering 
And descants silvery, tuned so tender — thrilled 
With longing and responsive promise — oft' 
Its home hath heard the hospitable laughter 
Of those cute children, leading lives of play 
And hunt upon the fairest of Azores. 
So lipped my voice, 
Encouraged by those sweet says, running sooth 
And swift and slow, as the fell, falling down 
The mossy rocks and stones, till hurried on — ■ 
Then by some birch-bole sudden stopped it 

foams 
The green-blue surface of the dreaming basin, 
Which spume of ages cut and hollowed round ! 



Flashes of Thought 35 

My voice lipped thus, as purl of pond, when on 
Its margin hang the lilies low, and plash 
With breeze-wooed head the lorn lacustrine 

dream ! 
"Begone ! Bold blade ! Not to this haunt se- 
cluded 
"Thy 'ticing syllables pronounce — nor sing 
"As Satrys once to Lymniads, long ago, 
"When Bion on his reed their pleasures praised 
"Yea, lasting lauded — nor gloat, as through the 

eve 
"Of stormy clouds the sallow leer of livid sky ! 
"Not know I in my mind why comest thou, 

obtruder ! 
"Not weens my heart how thou hadst dared 

such step 
"To lure a maid — and sin !" But with a tongue 
That seemed some powerful instrument, deep- 
strung, 
As, by the Arno, Paganini weird 
With his own fiddle played when mirksome 

night 
Its fillets flared, and blasted, far by Mantua, 
Its clarions, courser-like — with such strange 

song 
My body felt the deep green liquid warmer 
And warmer welter, till for joy the waves 
So blue, showered dew-bath on the herbs and 
bush 



36 Fragments 

And what of delicate beauty fringed and 

illumed 
The bank — "So beauty blooms when maiden 

pure, 
"To passion natural her oundy body 
"Doth flex, and tremble, restrains and bends, 

till writhes, 
"With grace unseen before, to unconfined 
"Desire ! So seems the slender vine, where 

dreams 
"Of even winds curl, sling and languish it — 
"So pliable the delicate dahlia's stalk — 
"When o'er the terrace, ornate with a living 

wall 
"Of scenting colors, lispeth breeze that blows 
"With it the songs of far Odessa rich — 
"So waves the filmy cloud, that swells alone 
"To languishment, when through the Keblah- 

hour 
"The culver cruises the lorn, desolate sky! 
"So loves the heavy lotus, when on lake 
"The milky moon doth kiss the ripples pale 
"And with albescent sigh the bulbul lulls 
"His plaintive descant ! So, on Ganges quaint. 
"Tradition-flowed, the Hindoo sees the heave 
"Of shadow from the Boabab, that hangs 
"Its old, old branches o'er the whispering 

flood! 
"O, Oread ! Sylvanus himself would pipe 
"More sweetly, saw he what I see ! O maid, 



Flashes of Thought 37 

"Couth Comus, with his wizard-wand, would 

stone thee. 
"Revive thy veins when thou in temples lewd 
On alabaster walls thy glance would'st delect 
"And glare them with the orfrairs, pendent 

o'er 
''The arch-doors — leading to the lute and cym- 
bal 
"Where dance, narcotic fume, pollute the 

sense ! 
"Fair favian bather, he, Chateaubriand, 
"Dear Francia's sweetest lutist, would have 

joyed 
"To pen voluptuous colorings : reflexes 
"Of Southern woods, where Popocatepetl 
"Its snowy spire cleaves to the Mazarene 
"Of Mexic's magic vault : the Inca's North ! 

(Continued 1886.) 

No Luxor blossom when the bee-dancer sheds 
Her vestments rare and to the public glistens 
Her lovely flesh and form could radiate more 
Than when thy swelt loins waver with the 

wave 
That hath its birth by the sparkling fell up 

there ! 
O, charm! and must I forfeit the fond joy 
To kiss thee and to sip the nectarine beads 
Like scarlet berries oozing from thy skin — 
The beauty of a maid !" 



38 Fragments 

If tempters be 
Those strains of praise worked as the breeze 

doth woo 
With scenting blush the clouds of gold to 

blow — 
When o'er the hills the showers of blossoms 

fall 
And streams ring clear — and all in concert 

joins 
To jubilate the season's love ! Some chill 
Unfelt before — seemed gush, from the blue 

bosom 
Of the excited pool, withthrough my blood — 
A tepor, as the warm rain in calm June, 
Mingled, and some strange stream fled from 

my heart, 
And, as the springs rush to the main, and 

grown 
To floods pour on the sea their stronger 

passion 
To tremble the wide ocean — so that heart gush 
Sped strongly on — till all my sentient clay 
Trembled — and passion, sudden felt, wore on 
Its uncontrollable, but harmonious flood! 
"O, shun not passion ! Maid ! Beauty all-pure 
"Is as the cardinal-flower, that by the mead, 
"Near water-course, its brilliant pride up- 

rears — 
"To the maroon full dahlia, that swells in 

glow — 



Flashes of Thought 39 

"And lusts in languid breaths of temperate 

climes — 
"Where the dream-maid loves sentimentally! 
"Blesst land ! . . . . How lovely bends thy 

form — with arm 
"So rounded, (the shaded roots of stream-fed 

beech 
"Its counterfeit), in tortuous tangle round 
"Thy head, neat golded, inclined towards thy 

grace 
"Of woman : purest shoulder, as the bergamot 
"When yet the tinge of pink doth mantle 

sprinkled 
"Its immaturity — such pure mould doth draw 
"The semblance of that charm to perfect 

female 
"How radiant all thy nudity — as she, 
"Desirous of a lonely bath, displayed — 
"When rash surprised by two aged beards — 

who came 
"To see inordinately ! O, untwine not swift 
"Those graceful limbs that in their lissomness 
"Seem as a goddess, sparkling nectar- waves — 
"By Himerean oaks, soft-shaded. 

Leave their wooing — 
"As though the century-vines were quickened ; 

so 
"They lean, as waiting for the gatherings 
"Of wool from sheep, that Nod hath bred, and 

shorn. 



40 Fragments 

"O, clasp thy limbs, and bend thy waist — and 

garland 
"Thy streaming golden tresses with thine 

arms — 
"But in thy thought, with will as adamant, 
"Restrain thy picturings of ribaldry — 
"Confine those ebullitions of desire — contend 
"With Purity for victory o'er lewdness, 
"Willful pleasure in thought guided passion 
" 'Tis nature-pleasing — 'tis the beauteous priv- 
ilege 
"Of woman's power to charm — entice and 

win ! 
"Prithee !" my quavering lips lisped slow, yet 

fast, 
"If to enchant me, or to train my youth 
"Into libidinous trance — avast ! and hence ! 
"Molest no lonely child ! Ensnare no virgin ! 
"The wind may flatter the red rose — but doth 
"Its surge engulf the bloom ! and clouds, may 

wet 
"The dancing fields of marguerites, but do 
"They flood the flowerets — drowning all to loss 
"Of growth and sheen ! Thy golden goodsays 

soothe 
"Me — and with thrilling flush my bosom 

heaves 
"My thought reveres thy truth, and knows 

anow 



Flashes of Thought 41 

"Why woman's weakness glorious seems, when 

of 
"The virgin nature asks alluring beauties 
"To wave and tremble — for the passion pure 
"Is law-necessity ! But eke not now 
"By Eblis-symbols, my young blood's sweet 

flow! 
"Else as the one whose nyphomania tears 
"Her mind and sense into a nothingness — 
"As through the Euroclydon the saint-loved 

cypress 
"May stand not — nor may glide its mournful 

strain, 
"Thou shalt bear witness of the pool to surge 
"As round the coral reefs the main — thou shalt 
"Bear witness of the spray to spatter the 

trees — 
"As the loud lashings of the besomed wind 
"Doth scatter silver on the dark blue isles 
"By Martinique — the pool shall boil — and thou 
"Must see thy beauty-child a wreck within 
"The waters green — as by some haunted castle 
"Turretted above the cliffs of stormy sea 
"Within the glaucous roar a pale sail moves ! 
"Good Nymph ! 'Tis well ! Thy spirit dwells, 
"With angels — I shall hence. You see me 

gone !" 
In my half innocence the tears of shame 
Bedewed the buccal crimson, which his speech 
Evoked. Half angered — half in combat slight 



42 Fragments 

Mine ignorant guise of words had brought 

Upon such winning verbage admirers add 

When they adore their symbol of an angel — 

I wept, and saddened ! for an afterthought 

Swept o'er my soul as Gabriel's message high 

Withoe'r the vision of great Mahomet ! 

And relevantly could I kiss him, since no law 

Enacteth osculation's strong taboo — 

But as the butterfly the tiger-lily — as 

The heavy golden bee the purple thyme — 

As the sweet colibri the columbine — 

As honeysuckles feel the buzz and sip 

Of honey-bees — as the large rose doth droop 

To sopping of the glorious morning-dew — 

As the lone water-lily shrinks not when 

Libellulae hang libant on its petals 

So white, and tinged from aural flames — as oft' 

Where murmurings matutinally break 

The silence of the woods — the violet — 

So pure, and perfumed as an Oriental queen — 

Doth blush not, when its gutty crown hangs 

low — 
Submissive to the tender weight of praise 
The wandering cloudlet left, while sailing quiet 
Through vernal realms of balm ! So may the 

maid 
Her ruby, and ripe lips sweet lay upon 
The cheek or warming mouth of youth un- 
known — 
Beautiful — and seeking sympathy alike ! 



Flashes of Thought 43 

O, maid ! our world is but disguise — and we 
As specious things, show not our inner selves, 
But as the golden fly, than hums, buzzes, 
As purest bee, to semble what of bee is most 
Eschewed and feared, and vet adored — we 

strain 
Our falsest wings to imitate the bee's deft 

drone — 
When caught — the common fly — that nature 

orned 
With pompous jewels — lieth dead, and we 
May know the truth of its delusions ! 

Maid! 
Rare vestments are the slayers of pure beauty ! 
Robes, rent from animals, or spun by worms, 
Or wove from exotic plants — or decked 
With colors, that are got from ingots strown 
Upon the public mart of fashion — they 
Consume young thought, and when .the age 

of love 
Doth burn its torches multitudinous 
They hide what to the eye should be a lesson 
Of life and duty. Man's presumptuous aims 
Rise over vestment's show and he doth lose 
The value of himself — what Nature yearned 
For charms, man shirks by law ; man killeth all 
The deftness of our life — and life doth shrink 
To vanity so hideous — to stale, obsequious 
Urbanity — which, in sooth, doth harm 
The vigorous stream of doing! 



44 Fragments 

MAID. 

As the warble 
Of larks o'ercasts the zephyrs of the morn — 
So let me flow ratification mine 
Withthrough thine emollient aphorismic 

speech. 
O, Mistress ! sallow shrimps the wrinkled age — 
Ugly the hag roams through the groves — dis- 
gust 
As bat through dark night, with no moon to 

shine — 
Doth fill our senses, when the bawd doth bear 
Her loathsome limbs witho'er the brambled 

heath ! 
Man walks no more as in couth Greece, or 

where 
Pure India stands in temples undefiled. 
No longer charms of quiet interest his mind — 
But as the hyena, wreaking but for coldest 

blood 
And flesh — men hurry thro their lives for pale 
And withered ore, that charmeth not — but saps 
The body's vigour, and haggardness besets 
The world, and slavery doth manacle 
Each life ! O, wherefore then, O, mistress 

high 
Should beauty shine unseen! wherefore the 

clay 
Be luissant in its natural enchanting lustre 



Flashes of Thought 45 

When no deep thought is born to admire — 

adore — 
And praise, what lavish nature so for man 
Designed ! Who voices in encomium sweet 
And low, maids nudity ! who would not blush 
To tame to lasting lull those rounded limbs 
With the firm ischiadic madness of perfect 

form ! 
Where dwells dreaming such song to swell the 

praise 
For maiden's purest voluptuousness. 

Would altar's 
Deep-hooded sophistry subdue world's clamor 
At praising Nature's deft design! Though 

spire 
And cross should crumble and melt at beauty's 

voice 
Would man true recognize the relevancy 
Of eulogy to form unhidden — and to clay 
Pure shaped, to sweetness of the maiden lines 
That Nature moulded for man's eyes alone ! 
We hide our life — and youth and manhood 

knows 
Not of the woman! We, as maidens, in our 

play 
Ignore their prize — and shun to beam for them. 
So both — by curious eagerness incited, sin ! 
Ere aware whyfore! Small-sightedness of 

the world ! 
By hiding what is true and ineffaceable 



46 Fragments 

Yea hath the sovereignty o'er youth and maid, 
The world begets profligacy — unties 
Passion's strong chain-like girdle — and lo — re- 
straint, 
As though the cold-kept cloud its vapors, sud- 
den 
Released by Aeol's tepid breath, unloosed, 
And streaming down with straightened floods 

doth free 
Its shackles, and like Abaris so fleet, rejoins 
Its natural course. Hath ever man beheld 
Maid's limbs as marble standeth in the shade 
Of yon broad, topiary bush ! — Or hath youth's 

pulse 
Been as the visible stream of vapors gold, 
That clouds eternal o'er the zenith! Nay! 
Eye, arm, and supple limb aye see — bend — 

cross 
And thought of youth e'er tends to win her 

heart 
For him. . 

LUCINDA. 

Little Warbler ! ay ! the bluish scillae 

Upon the rocky field, close by the winding 

bourne, 
Doth joy the drowsy summer-bee, its honey 
Spurs not to hive, but revelry and pleasure 
The burnished bee seeks by the coral blue — 
So thy soft comments are diversion apt 



Flashes of Thought 47 

For her who thought to sing and muse and 

delve ! 
How just enthusiasm's born of pertinent par- 
ley — 
And speech unthought-of swells from lips so 

young 
And yet in ignorance ! O maid, sweet child so 

true, 
Thy words are as the meteors bright — as 

moons 
That speed around great Saturn — are as true 
As the swift light doth travel the inane 
And sparks from star to sun — from sun to 

sphere 
With life, and habitation. 

But to seek 
Thy contradiction, that will seem as waftage 
By currents drawn to the loud ocean, when 
The tow swells up — returns the ebbed wreck 
Till, rocking by the same peaked rock — it 

splashes 
As when ago — and sounds and calls up 

thoughts 
That were — so will thy words welter soon 

again — 
And answ r er expedient, or agreement — or 
Some vast discussion shall loom up, and show 
Illume and edify! Yea, age is ugly — 
But youth and womanhood are as the clouds 
At noontide, when fair June doth wanton sweet 



48 F r a g 111 cuts 

And that great disk, afar, doth scorch not. 

Maid ! 
The ugly often sweeter seems, than that 
In beauty sembleth purest show — 'tis age 
On age that works in man sore habits — man, 
That hath been clothed, forgets the vileness 

bare 
Of animals, whose fur protecteth frame, 
But hides not the offensive. What may bear 
Like semblance to our woman's form ! 'Tis all 
That beauty knoweth ! The soft skin, pink 

hue — 
The waving shape — not hirsute as the man — 
But decked with gems all unemhossed — yet 

sparkling 
As rubies, lost and cradled on the envious foam 
That sinuous-pitcheth in a hollow gulf. 
Of some wild mountain basin ! Our zone 
Is fairest — haunches, hillock — and they swoon 
In what of sweetness is the sweetest — list — 
Nature provided for all ! — one mossy mound 
Doth shadow the swift freak of passion — and 
Our. loathsomeness is bloomed with deftest 

robe ! 
Let Spring be bare — let June be beauteous 

shown — 
Let Summer clothe the trees — and Winter, old 
In reverence, soft snow the ground and herbs ! 
But man enfeebles — man to man, is as 



Flashes of Thought 49 

Weird Erebus, where the South-snow melts 

not 
To greenest Zante, she that bloometh e'er! 
1 man frights when he sees a man ! A woman 
Shrieks vociferously when she sees a man! 

(Unfinished— 1886) 



A HYMN. 

(fragment.) 

Let Me Muse with Thee, Father of Eternity! 

Thine Angels are descending 

And their shields of steel are blending 

Blending, blending, 
The eyes of all Thine Congregation, 
Spending to Thee a heavenly ovation ! 
And their trumpets are sounding 
And their echoes rebounding — 
Whilst a strain of sainted melody is wafted 
From an organ, in the tumbling clouds en- 
grafted. 
Alternately, a whisper-song, 
With a chorus rolled along, 
Is drowned by an acclaim of praise to Thee, 
O Father of the World and of Eternity ! 



50 F r a g m cuts 

And an anthem, sweetly modulated, 
Swells, with an incense mated ; 
And thus its fragrance sweetens all 
That congregated in Thine own Hall. 

The trumpets call : 
^Hosannah, Hosannah ! 

Thou the Father 
Of this great Universe ! 

Praise to Thee! 
To Thee a song most terse! 

Thou the Father, 

Praise to Thee !" 

And the lyres lull the trumpets lovingly — 
So lovingly they are, as Love can be. 
And they glide along an Eulogy : 

Placid lakes reflect the skirts of olive-groves — 
Olive-branches, emblems of Peace, our Father 

loves — 
Virgins flit aneath the winding olive-trees ; 
Virgins sing in praise of Him their melodies ! 

Waves are laving — while are waving 
In the air our virgin-robes — 

Praises sing we, whilst the waves 
are surging — 
Silently are surging to the coves — 

Praise to Thee, to Thee Most High ! 

Halleluiah ! Praises to the Sky ! 



Flashes of Thought 51 

Through the groves, and to the ocean, 

Streams our singing, with seasway — 
We are virgins, and in motion 

As the caps, in distant play — 
Praises to Thee, to Thee Most High ! 
Halleluiah ! Praises to the sky ! 
Spending incense from our censers — 

It unites with spattering spume — 
Praising Thee — and we are dancers — 

With our souls of Heaven-bloom ! 
Praises to Thee, to Thee Most High ! 
Halleluiah ! Praises to the Sky ! 



Virgins singing; virgins swinging — virgins 

chaste — 
Virgins vanish — virgins come — as clouds, in 

haste. 
Virgins praising — their white arms upraising, 

pray— 
Pray a prayer a-blossoming deftly for such 

day. 
We with lyres beguiling all the heavenly 

train — 
We with canticles incense the favored fane — 
We with lyres entone a sainted song that 

streams 
Like a Lydian lullaby in pleasant dreams ! 



52 F r a g m cuts 

The roses she chooseth — 
And she smilingly thanks her God — 

Their scent, it sootheth 
Her mind ; and she leaves the sod, 
In her mind — in her maiden-mind. 
Bearing wreaths of thoughts, that wind- 
O happy, O happy — 
As the garlands, a temple is dressed with — 
As the garlands, a temple is dressed with — 
O happy. O happy ! 

She passeth the primrose 
It beckons to bow to its charm — 
How sweetly her whim rose — 
Her delicate hand, with dulcet alarm, 
Blesseth the flower, that peeps to her — 
With innocent glance — and oh ! the stir 
In her heart, in her heart, 
Like the lazy linden-tree's trembling, 
Like the lazy linden-tree's trembling — 
In her heart, in her heart. 

The fairy fern-flowers — 
The stars of the woods, the wands 
of the bush — 
The bells of blue hours — 
The wild flowers all — with their 
forest-flush — 
She placeth in her pure white hand 
And her eyes gaze up to a land — 



Flashes of Thought 53 

O blissful, O blissful- 
Like the serenity of a sainted soul — 
Like the serenity of a sainted soul. . 

O blissful, O blissful. 

A meadow now gleameth — 
She blushes as she sees her bonnie 
boy. 
An eye, how it beameth — 
A soul — it loiters in the heaven 
of Joy ! 
She forgets the flowers ; the forests 

they fill 
With praises to God — with the lay 
of the rill — 

O extasy, O extasy — 
As the lover's lullaby it floweth — 
As the lover's lullaby it floweth — 
O extasy, O extasy. 

Now the lyres lessen their melodious strain — 

One accord of pain ! 
And the lingering hillings, ripple-like and low, 
With fleetness flow — 
As the breeze o'er the soft-smooth snow, 
On a day of cold Cerulian atmosphere, 
So crystal-clear ! 
With plaintive pulsings thus the lyres dissolve, 
While their echoes far within the vault revolve. 
And each ear of so saintly a throng 
Is carried by that echo along! .... 



54 Fro gm cuts 

Here let me muse, while they 
Gather in kneeling groups — to pray. 

(18.83) 



TO THE MOON. 

(1885) 

While o'er the dreary barley-fields, at night, 
I roamed, when yet a boy, methought thee filled 
With life, and thy white light was diamond- 
glow. 
Methought thee pendent in the dark blue skies ! 
Thy changes wrought an awe in me ; — I felt 
A joy alive, when my sight greeted thee 
At night-time, whilst thy shining heralds 

strowed — 
O myriad jewels of purest orient- water 
Before their stormy steeds ; to pave thy path 
Ere riding, like a queen Circassian, proud 
And daring o'er the mystic mountain-peak ; 
To chase, with eagerness and warm intent, 
Through Night's wide realm; — to swoon at 

warbling-time of larks ; 
And die when fond Aurora cheers the earth ! 
While young I gazed at thy far wondrous orb. 
With vague, indifferent eye ; not knowing all : 
Thy motion — pulsings — and thy lovely office ! 



Flashes of Thought 55 

O Moon ! fair guide of all the blinking stars ; — 
O nightly kissed by all the warm sun-rays ; 
And when thou shinest at our nadir's arc 
Thy wantonness gleams still from revel's bliss 
In Night's weird- voiced carouse! O Moon! 

who art 
Ancestor to this globe of ours ! For ere 
Rosed Terra's dew-drops sparkled on all her 

fields, 
Dead, dead thou wert — cold, giving life to 

nothing ! 
O Moon! fair Dian by the ancients called. 
Sweet Phoebus, with the flaxen hair, when 

thou 
But buzzes winnest from the far far sun ! 
Proserpine thou ; adored as Hecate. 
Old queen — oh! ever young and vermeil- 
cheeked. 
O queen of Night's all-dark domain. A queen 
Of destinies ; a prophetess of Manes 
That flit, and float in hidden realms of light! 
And what not more ! Ruler of ocean-waves ; 
Sweet showereress, and blessing-bringer ; 

germs 
Sprout through thee ; swayest all the elements ; 
All that partake with thine ownself, kneel down 
Before thy sovereign majesty! 

O Moon! that now is known, full well, thy 
voice ; 



56 Frag m e 11 t s 

That now thy lands, and mounts, and peaks are 

known ; 
And that thy lones are peopleless; thy vales 
Wed no sweet winds ; nor howls the thunder 

wild 
Above thy peaks ; nor sways an atmosphere 
Around thy rugged-surfaced globe ; — how sing 
Of thee ; with golden harp, or rose-wood-lute ; 
Or voice, with virgin throat, a praise to thee ! 

O Moon ! revolving round the earth, as stars, 
Around the orbit of the procreant sun — 
Lonely thy path, with no soft hand to touch 
Thee, to console thee — but a headlong train 
That blazes — fiercely hurries — madly tracks 
Thy quiet road ! O Moon ! illumined art — 
Xot self-lit ! Art in bondage with the sun ! 
Art made to serve as lamp a higher sphere. 
Ay, art an earth, that once was green and 

warm, 
But now revolves, and treads a cold, cold 

route ! 

O Moon ! from whose high, hollow mounts the 

view 
Is light — all, all is brilliant — like a deep, 
Lit castle-chamber in the fairy-caverns 
Of earth; — from thy cold mounts all the stars 

are seen ! 
Apollo passes thee ! the stars and meteors 



Flashes of Thought 57 

Are never shadowed ; nor are lulled to sleep. 
By all-alternate change of light to dark ! 
Moon ! nearest universal orb to us ! 
That turnest ever one same hemisphere, 
Since age, towards our earth — oh ! what is 

there 
To hide — oh ! what may dwell — what live — 
What work — what love on that odd barm 
That we may never see, nor learn to know ! 
O Moon ! who art so all-mysterious ! Tell 
Thy tales, that tear tradition to thousand 

threads ; 
O shout, with frosty lips, thy cold dirge; — 

then, 
Reveal in songs, like chants by Babylon, 
What, through Time's aeons, happened on thy 

sphere ! ! 



WILD MOMENTS. 

Oh ! hath she whispered thee 

The sweet intensity 

Of moments wild and dire 

Qf woful, long desire 

To soar the azure deep — 

In scarlet poppy-sleep — 

To burst the bars of gold 

That the Heavens together hold. 

Told thee in words so cold 



58 Frag m e n t s 

As bides the frost on seared fold; 
Where blooms the last lorn rose 
Of warmth ! — told thee the throes 
That thrill the doleful mind, 
(O sad like autumn's wind) ; 
Pervading it with sights 
Seen but on stormy nights. 

O hath she whispered thee" 

The sweet intensity 

Of moments wild and dire 

The thoughts that rise like fire 

Bursting through the forest-lone 

To sullen skies ; the thorny throne 

Sublime in its weird coronal 

That lures us — holds us thrall 

To press our brow deep into it 

And weep ; — the space where flit 

Our moody thoughts to search for — seek 

The immortal goal ! 

If not, I'll speak 
To thee ! engulf thy happy ear 
Now deep in darkened caverns 'drear 
O list ! the wild wild moments come — 
They come — and crave a timelier tomb ! 

Anon while wielding thought 
Against wild reverie: 
Of portent hoary, and future glory, 
Why gleam yet golden the stars of olden 



Flashes of Thought 59 

I feel my mood had wrought 

Strange deeds of vehemency ! 
I feel I grapple with the craggy mounts — 
Uproot their aeon-rocks, and hurl them fierce 
Into great space ! To weigh their burdens on 
My burning palm — with wondrous impetus 
Sway back my nervous arm to throw, then see 
The giant rock rumble through the convulsive 

air 
And hear its shattering echo on the earth; 
That trembles like an acorn on the wave 
Of the mad main ! 

In wondrous moments dire 
When naught avails to soothe my querying 

eyes 
There seems no way to further insight clear 
To deep thoughts — then there floods into my 

veins 
Unboundable depression — such when swoons 
The saddened man, when fortune fails. — My 

pulse 
Beats like a Titan's, and a rage like his 
Overmasters me ; then spur the evil fiends 
Mine anger ! I rage — I flee my narrow house — 
With strides gigantic leap the flood — with 

hands, 
Grown hungry, grasp at every obstacle 
That looms, like mockery, before my feet ! 
With livid eyes, that shoot out envenomed rays 



60 Fragments 

To poison each wayfarer. 

Like the clouds 
That thunder o'er the wild, bare plain with 

winds 
Of Norland whipping them — so I speed on 
With marvellous motion ; tearing forests wide 
And dark-entrapping beasts with my wild 

hands 
Grown myriad-fingered; then with rage and 

ire 
Climb mounts — till mad-like reach the peak 
Olympus high; there raise the trophies wild 
In my two hands — and with a voice as loud 
Despairingly, as hath the lion-mother 
When stiff its suckling lies beneath the leaves 
That mat her hair — with such a voice 
I sound the loneliness : O take me far 
Where all is light — and definitely told 
And charactered ! All intelligibly sparkles. 
And darkness and frail doubt lie lividlv 
In their blue blood. O take me far to airs 
That blow with bland and swathing breath !" 

But still, 
As o'er a cypress-sepulchre, the peak, 
The sky — my words are welded into grievous 

sounds 
That waver upon the duping airy bosom 
Of space ! 

Then as a Moabite that staggers 



Flashes of Thought 61 

Upon th' brink of a sea-buffetted cliff — 

Wild cradles in her arms a babe she bore 

She nourished — she loved — and impulsed by a 

hope, 
Laid low by hag-Despair, she swings her arms 
And with a paining cry — she sees her babe 
Fall in the fierce mouths of the sea — so I 
Not hearing response — with a marvel-strength 
My two arms dash their burden down the 

peak — 
I faint — I pace the hard low rock — my entrails 
Burn by my deep deep woe — I cry — I plead — 
The wide wide space — oh bottomless — roof- 
less — • 
Hath drawn me to its spell. — I fall — I fall — 
No ages tell when I stop falling there. 

(1886) 



THE POET. 

Like to a solitary pine 
The poet stands — 
Mute — silent, without songs — 
Yet when the wind blows soft 
Like it, he sings 
Songs of immortal things. 



62 Fragments 

SKETCH OF A WARM MORN. 

(FROM MIIvFORD-BIvUFF, pa.) 

The ochre-horizon rises in blaze 
Of golden bice; and sinketh down 
Upon the hills, induing, as the crown 
Of Selene wears star's bright maze 
Of jewels aural. — Where the pines 
Stand black against the distant hill, 
Fields wave down to the farm-house still, 
How the bright roof like silver shines ! 
The barns are covered with golden sheen 
Such as the grain when trees their green 
Have russetted or vermillioned bright ! 
Behold the massive walls of woods — 
Their crests a splendor of verdant light. 
Below the farm the corn-fields broaden fair 
And wheat-squares yellow the level plain 
Where patches of white buckwheat are — and 

where 
Some solitary trees like the palm tall 
By fruitful Nile stand — those fields stain — 
As damaskeening some rare Kashmere-shawl — 
The flower-stains enhance with beauty all. 
With greenest banks the cloud-endeepened 

river 



Flashes of Thought 63 

Flows tranquil by — where the field-beaver 
The current plies. 

O haze of summer-heat 
That veilest all with quivering stole — 
Transparent — as some cabalistic sheet 
Athwart the duped and wondering soul. 
O glamour imperceptible — yet seen 
When o'er the view the scanning gaze 
Doth strain, to tell if gold or green 
The scene invests, or unknown blaze 
From the great sun, that dangles down o'er 

earth 
And grows a warmth and hue of mystic birth ! 
O heat, that tingleth the warm cheek 
Felt — touched ! as entelecheal clay 
O Mind ; O Thought ; O Angels, speak— 
And tell what worketh such a day ! 
What element usorious falls 
To deaden the quick thought — installs 
The active body before a moody mime — 
To loll, and languish, — as 'neath the lime 
The fair one, by glow-Naxos born and bred — 
With Cyprus locks sweet-witching warmer 

head. 
What potency may be, upon a chilling air 
Transmute from covert enchanter 
A sullen sultriness — that checks the flow 
Of mood to do, to think — to know ! 
And yet the bird purls — and showers of song 



64 Fragments 

Descend from rustling branchlets through 
Beneath the flowering bushes — where the herbs 
Quiver ! O tell ; say, what so disturbs 
The action of man's limbs — so perturbs 
The ears, that list for erudition deep — 
So seems to will our senses all to sleep — 
O warmth, O sleep, and cold in deathly glens 
Doth lurk with endless lethargy 
O fire, O chill— O life— O death- 
Birth kills, and death revives the eye 
Warm, cold ! O death is there — and breath ! 
Yet blandness of a flood that air. pervades 
As some Aeolian strain through Gada's shades 
Our senses animates; in quietude and rest 
The clay survives the worn and panting breast. 
O lie you down [ man of the noble mind — 
O know that heat doth burn for bodies blind — 
O heat doth glow for all the blossoms there 
Doth stifle us so ripen the fruits so fair. 
O know that heat doth parch us to gem 
The Autumn-trees with sparkling anadem. 
That heat w T orks through the atmosphere 
To give to man but joy and cheer! 
In quietude and rest the clay attrite 
May meditate in freshened light. 
Loll on the slumb'rous earth, while all around 
A creative element so wondrously works — 
Tis rest that actuates to merrier sound, 
? Tis undue bustle a saner body shirks. 
Man rests — and nature labors on — 
Nature grows all — Nature alone ! 



Flashes of Thought 65 



YOUNG ANTOINETTE. 
A Pastoral. 

(MOD AVE, BELGIUM.) 

Young Antoinette hath known but eighteen 

years ; 
I asked if they were smiles. She said : "No, 

tears.! 
"Have ever moistened cheeks of mine; — my 

life 
"Was with the peasants, and in learning's strife 
"At town Louvaine; where two short years I 

stayed 
"At school — and since last year, I prayed 
( 'In yonder chapel to each saint of ours 
"And led to pasture all the kine at hours 
"When in the east the ravens hail the sun ; 
"When at the noon the brooklets silvery run. 
"When at the orange-eve the spider-threads 
"Float unseen through the groom." 

I asked, when weds 
The full-hipped Vallan-maid; her smiles 

sweet-said, 
As whispering thorn beneath the breezes tread : 
"When twenty years of pasture-life have 

passed 
"We kiss one whom we cling to, everlast." 



66 Fragments 



<N 



No lover has young Antoinette — alone 

She tends to kine and bullocks — by the stone 

That glistens white — when through the poplar 

tall 
The golden rays of the fleet sun do fall. 
And by the sombre sward, when pinkish veils 
Wing o'er the knolls — and far the sun-flare 

sails 
In fiery golden magnificence — adown 
Its infinite chasm ! — sometimes, when her 

gown 
Flutters against the heavy wind — that keeps 
The bat a-wing — when every birdling sleeps 
And, o'er the orient height, a sallow glare 
Extinguishes ten stars ! — 

Then stood we there 
In night's consenting ebon smile ; I kissed 
Her warm couth face — and, round her waist, I 

twist 
An arm — that held her in a love embrace. 
Young Antoinette demurred — and, face to 

face, 
Temple beating 'gainst a mellow temple — stood 

We, syllabing in sweetest assonance! — O 
would 

The lulling airs had held us there! Could 
Death 

Nip each of our life's now so blissful breath ! 



Flashes of Thought 67 

Young Antoinette is short — with haunches 

broad — 
A bosom fair — that, as two water-lilies load 
A crystal pond — burdens her rustic form. 
Young Antoinette doth disentwine mine arm 
From its embrace — but still her temple warm 
She presses 'gainst mine own ; she fears detec- 
tion 
When from the grange the candle-light's re- 
flection 
Casts streams of lucent lemon — but I say 
Confidingly to her : such lights betray 
Not our tryst — as in the raven-night we are 
And in the dark no eye can see us there. 
Yet Antoinette resists — but kisses keep us one 

x\nd long embraces, warm as a June-day sun. 
And ere we parted — thrice, with intervals 
So silent like the pauses in the falls 
Of silvery breezes — our beings mingle — 

Rapt in glow-bliss ; one warmth, as never sin- 
gle 
We once had been, doth soothe our hearts 
And we had known what sympathy imparts. 
Thrice were we as two serpents intercoiled, 

In wilderness's luxuriance bedded — foiled 
By none — in calm retreat and loneliness. 
As tranquil vapors, seeming motionless, 
Twine dreamily around the languid even 
Fair-hushed by the sun farewelling heaven — 



68 F r a g m cuts 

So were our souls — those moments of dream- 
love; 
While night consented — stars did not reprove. 
Thrice, as the morning-glory's tendril winds 
Itself around the muskrose-bush, by winds 
That waft along the fragrance of the fields. 

(1887) 



RAPHAEL. 

'Tis not that painter whose young days had 

wrought 
Madonnas, many as the ravens when they spot 
The Autumn's forge-like orient-sky. 
Not he 'tis, who so dexterous with the gut 
And facile with the sonnet, drew his friends 
Around him — and who had spillt his life in 

years 
Of Summer's prime — he being slave to eyes 
That sparkle around the fervor of the woman. 
'Tis not that Raphael, the divine designer — 
Art's sweetest votary. 

It is a girl 
That hath been bred by a small meadow- 
brook — 
A baby-tributary of a stream 
That babbleth past Tilleul — and rusheth on — 
Into the Meuse. She seemeth like a fragment 
Of some diviner world's intensest work — 



Flashes of Thought 69 

Bearing the brand of this earth's sweet crea- 
tion 
In aiding others, and to serve and toil. 
An inspiration bursts its crystal shrine — at 

seeing 
Those features, with their dreams sweet- 
nestled 'neath 
Her playful hair, that hath mahogany 
In its bright lustre ; and the warm depths of 

sandal 
In its wild-flinged shadows. Those ebon eyes, 
In their sweet-budding knowing, love, yet may 
Repel by their fierce fire 



AT BELLINZONA. 

Ay, fifteen years are gone, and with them blow 
The years of sunshine, chill and snow — 
And yesterday I viewed the olden hills 
Where Bellinzona stands ; and beauty fills 
With all its ancient charms of chivalry — 
And fortress fallen — and the trenches free 
Run wild with briers and the sweet blue- 
weed — 
And the old ruin clomb I, as ago 
We two, in vouth, had often 



jo Fro. g m cuts 



CADIZ, SPAIN. 

Oh! lovely Cadiz by the Sea — 
Why do I dote on thee? 

It is because the Atlantic laves 
Thy strong-embattled shores — 
Those relics of the dusky Moors — 
And that I know those waters play 
With my own home's so glorious bay, 

Its ripples, and its waves! 

Thy white-hued houses melt away 

With the snow-sembling clouds at day. 

And seem ghosts at the starlit night — 
'Tis fair to watch the smacks and sails 
When the swift east-blown wind prevails 
And gaze upon thy raven tressed girls, 
Their eyes — their teeth like corral-pearls — 

Their perfect build — my one delight ! 



HOW IDEAS COME TO US! 

They say that ideas come like floats 

Of germs through the still atmosphere — 

Sweet ideas many as the silvered moats 

Within the sunbeam, when the day is clear. 



Flashes of Thought Ji 

I do endorse this theory — 

For such a germ hath come to me — 
And rested on my mind like dew 

Upon a lily. 
They say if we do entertain it 

Then will it grow to shape full fair — 
But if we never do detain it 

It'll wander to another's lair ; 
Where it will blossom. 
But I shall call it to my mind — 
That thus 'twill sweetest dwelling find 

For its dear dalliance — 
For this it brought me, fairy tended, 
For lovers fit — with love's hues blended — 

So smell its fragrance : 
Eyes are the language true that tell 
If love is born or passion's spell — 
If only fascination fretted all 
Her heart — or if her pride were thrall. 
Eyes tell if bashful she, or bold — 
If warmly hearted, or ice-cold — 
But here methinks to sweet disclose 
How you may tell if love arose, 
Or only witchery — or more 
Sly deviltry to wound heart's core. 
Oh ! if her lids are wide apart — 
And seek to pierce thy loving heart — 
And gaze at thee so — long and long — 
As though she with fair lover's song 
Were dreaming through an avenue 



F r a g m c n t s 

With flowers filled, of every hue — 
Then trust it : It is love — true love — 
Pure love that will, through every grove 
Sweet fragrant, or with thistles grown, 
Wander with thee, with thee alone. — 
But if her lids are opened quick — 
Then fall of sudden — such sly trick 
Forbear — for she is fooling thee — 
She's filled with sparkling witchery. 
But if her lids are low — then rise 
So slowly, like clouds in summer skies — 
Then fall as slowly down to gaze 
At thee no more — O ! love ! erase 
Such memory from thy loving heart, 
For such is not Love's fragrant dart. 
Her gaze is more than fooling thee — 
For in it flickers deviltry; 
Desire is her only goal. 
She knoweth naught of the lasting soul. 
So learn : that lids when moving down 
Or up — those hearts are not for thee alone. 
They wend their ways with thee awhile — 
Then would they other hearts beguile. 
But, oh ! when lids are wide apart — 
Long gazing at thee — loving heart ! — 
And piercing through thy loving soul — 
Then trust to them — thou art their goal — 
As through some alley sweet with scent 
She would to wander in merriment 



Flashes of Thought 73 

With thee alone — with thee alone — 
Where blooms to beds are grown ! 

{California.) 



CONTENTMENT. 

Two hearts, beating fast in unison. 
We are glorious under earth's own sun. 
And tho' they beat for moments few — 
We have dreamt 'neath Love's own heaven 
blue. 



A NOTE. 

The scarlet sickle in the sunshine's glow ; 
The crimson orange of the tender chickweed in 
the brilliant grass. 

California (1889) 



IMPROMPTU. 

I love to stand in a field with daisies pied — 
(While the cleary west wind blows) 

Where the butterflies and the ground-squirrel 
hide, 
(While the vine in melodies flows) 

And hear the fluting birds a-wing, 

As thro' the pine-tree wood they sing ! 



74 Fragments 



BARREN ART. 

All barren is that art 

That, all-elaborate, 
Forsakes the soul and heart 
And the All-Mighty Fate. 
To build a mansion of cold stone: 
Carved, sculptured with chill forms alone ! 

(1895) 



IMPROMPTU. 

Low Jupiter shines pale to-night ; 

Yet large is he ; 
As is the distant beacon-light 

That shines against the hill's obscurity ! 



A NOTE OF SEPTEMBER. 

The locust's shrill, warm strain 

Wandering from tree to tree. 
A bird's note full of pain ; 

While o'er the lawn, in glee, 
The squirrels wave their bodies swift; 

Then climb the trunks of trees. 
And Nature's voices lift 

A symphony of harmonies. 



Flashes of Thought 75 



LINES. 

Let us be rested on this lonely hill, 
While loud autumnal winds do roam at will. 
And see the crimson trees, o'er there, in gold 
Be tossed about within the wild wind's hold ! 



WOMEN. 

Women seem to me like flowers, 
Standing passive in their glow ; 

Waiting for Love's ardent hours 

When bold men, like gold-bees will go 

To seek their vigor in their languor, 
As the bees find pollen in the petals 

Of the Persian-diapered passion-flowers 1 



A TEAR. 

O Vere! 
Come here ! 
Bring cheer 
And drive my gloom away. 
The bay seems drear, 
Like one large tear — 
While all above the sky is grey ! 



y6 Frag m e n t s 



LINES. 

Do what I may, no inspirations fair 

Will come, like rosy clouds to sun's farewell. 
Then what can I poor mortal say when no 
dear spell 
Of thoughts allow me sing a lay so heaven- 
rare ! 

And though I hear the locust in the air — - 
Tho' by me trickles the small brook's sweet 

fell, ' 
Tho' the bird sing his song adorable, 

Xot one new inspiration thrills me there ! 



FLASHES. 

The mystical electrical power that sways 
A person's nerves and blood ! 

>|: >;< %. >|i j|< ;|i 

Oh ! for a word of parlance sweet, 
When two eyes all of sudden meet! 
Why linger with those glances strange 
That o'er the soul so swiftly range ! 



Flashes of Thought J? 



A MOOD. 

These wrinkles on my face and hands — 

It always seems to me, 
Are the wave-ripples on the sands, 

Telling of "no more sea" ! 



LINES. 

Wo die wiithenden Lavastromen sich 
Furchen, fressend, graben — 

O diese Wuth Kenne ich — ich der der 
Liebeflammen Preiss gegeben. 



A DREAM. 

Would that the day be as 
The night of dreaming was. 
And if such happiness be born 
At the clear-shining morn — 
Oh ! who would whisper to his heart 
That the day should soon depart? 
For while the stars shone gold — 
And the soft breeze not cold — 
The dreamy lids were laid 
Upon the weary eyes. 



y8 F r a g m e n t s 

And while the Nereids braid 
Their silvery tresses, where 
The sounding sea-swell dies 
Within the soft-green lair . 
Of minion sea-folk white 
The mind is soothed with bright 
And tender dreams ! O dreams ! 
O nightly dream ! that seems 
As over-bliss — as Angel-will ! 
As sweet as Limniad's rill ! 

Oh! who wouM wish for day 

When dreaming of a "May" (girl) 

That tenderly caresses ; 

With her wild-curled tresses 

Entangles all thy sight; 

And whose soft charms delight 

The willing lip ! — For so 

The dream pursed, as the glow 

Of Juno's lips, when Jove created 

A passion sweet ere they were mated ! 

(1887) 



IMPROMPTU. 

Oh! "when the cold, clear lightnings flare 
Thro stars, and the rain-moistened air. 
Oh ! then I would to warm my brow 
Upon those cheeks, those lips that vow 



Flashes of Thought 79 

To keep them taciturn ; and only 
When in the forespent eve, we lonely 
Pervade our spirits with a love that's calm. 
And 



LINES. 

The man, whom discipline hath grown to a 
machine, 
Is as the ever-working wheel, that shapes 
Forms equal and alike. And he who apes 
As doth the photograph, he knoweth not the 

sheen 
That spreads o'er him, who, waiteth for his fire 
To build, create — for, lo ! a super-mind did 
him inspire ! 

>|i >Jc :•< >ji ^c j|i 

The tales of childhood yet remain 
In age, if love has bloomed aglow. 

If sighs have been, all tales will wane 
And nothing is as 'twas ago ! 



HEARD IN A DREAM. 

As the blight falls from the beard 

Of corn to the velvet-green to mould — 

So seemeth he to fall, who aye had feared 
The Lord's wrath: he shall rot in his own 
fold! (1885) 



8o F r a g m e n t s 



IMPROMPTU. 



When shadows show their slenderness ; 

And fields tremble in the flowing breeze 
The many birds pipe loveliness ; 

And know themselves at tranquil ease. 



STRANGE. 

Aye, aye we speak to those we love not — 
Oh! she, my love, love, is far away — 

Such curse it is to live so love-lorn — 
To others we our woe must say: 



THE DREAMER. 

I was accused o' being fresh and young, 

Unwonted with the doings of the world — 
So May-like with my unsophisticated tongue, 

Xot cognizant of how the city whirled 
In pleasure. Yea, I may be, yet to m.e 
Was given all Love's darkest misery — 
I've dreamt alway by my tears' billowy sea — 
Sat by the Gates that show Eternity ! 



Flashes of Thought 81 



QUATRAIN. 

Above the bosky hills the sky is pinkish gold, 
Far daisy fields seem like a field in autumn's 

hold 
When frost doth fret them with light rime at 

morn — 
So seem the far fields when June-eve is born ! 

Utica, (June 27, 1896). 



LINES. 

With what weird murmur sings the water fall, 
While all the heavens glow with diamond 

stars — 
While maiden Luna smiles from silvery cars 
And wafts a silvery breath on all the pine-trees 
tall ! 

Lo ! where the dark, round wolds enshroud her 
bed; 
Where low, faint murmurings beguile her 

dreams, 
There dash her white, cold waters, while 
stray beams 
Flit airily above — anon to fall down dead. 



82 Fragments 



AT YUMA. 



I wandered o'er a lonely waste 

That liveth North of Yuma. 
I hurried, with unwonted haste — 

For all uncanny grew 

The scenery, where eagles flew, 
And not a human voice was sounding, 
For here the ages' winds were pounding 

The hills to sands; 

The mountain-lands 
To grotesque shapes like forts of dread, strong 
Montezuma ! 



A LILT. 

Through valleys of beauty 

To dales of age — 
Through maelstroms of duty- 

This is life's page. 



LINES. 

Would Evadne to me hearken 
When the shades of evening darken 
In the hollow of some vale 



Flashes of Thought 83 

While the sickle-moon is pale 
And young Hesper, jewel-bedight 
Heralds in the widow-night ? 



A LULL IN SONG. 

Oh ! my lyre's now unstrung : 
All those songs I once had sung 
Are so still and calm as air, 
When the sun shines no more there ; 
Waiting till the breeze be living 
Sweetest, blandest tunes fair-giving! 



LINES. 

Impatient as the wind 

To speed o'er Norland mounts, 
So on the morrow 
Far from icy sorrow 
It doth a love-cove find 
Fast by Joy's fragrant founts. 



LINES. 

Give me a rudder wreathed with roses rare 
To place it at the poop of some fair barge, 
So o'er blue-vaulted seas we sail at large, 

Blown onward by the Eastwind's flutey blare, 



84 Frag m e n t s 



TO SHELLEY. 

Shelley, when on my sickness-couch I lie, 

1 would that thou in blood and soul wert nigh. 
But then, but then — I feel thy presence near — 
And sweetest honey-words around I hear. 
Such thou hadst written, when inspired, thou 
Hadst lain thy poet-locks on Heaven's brow ! 

Then will I away, away 
To fields and forests of a newer May. 
Where in its mazes thou with Love dost sport 
With quip and laughter, and sweet retort, 
So will I dwell upon thy poem-treasure 
And seek therefrom new joy, heart's ease, and 
pleasure ! 



NOTES: WHILE IN CALIFORNIA. 

(1889) 

Till a solemn singer came : 

The votary of an immortal Name ! 

The reedy quivering 

Of a flying flock of ducks. 



Flashes of Thought 85 



JEALOUSY. 

• 

Art thou jealous? 

Oh! better so to be. 
For 'tis the prop to Constancy. 

Be thou jealous — 

And ever think of me. 
'Tis death to dire inconstancy ! 

QUATRAIN. 

Beauty floats now o'er the sea. 
Calm lies blooming on the lea. 
All's with prodigality — 
On the sea-hill quiet reigns. 

QUATRAIN. 

It is a day to lie at dreamy ease — 
And listen to the rustling of the trees. 
A stretch of glory is the shining sea. 
I would its sheeny Spirit I could be. 

RATTLE SNAKES. 

Aft' three years' life their first small rattle 

grows, 
Each succeeding one a year's new coiling 

shows. 



86 Frag m cuts 

In Spring those blinded snakes no rattling 

sound, 
They travel unforewarning o'er the flowered 

ground. 
But when the glow of August wilters all, 
Then fiercely do they on their victims fall ! 



A NOTE. 

In the morn, or in the storm, 

The poppy-flower keeps closed and warm. 



MORNING-FEELING. 

As the foggy morn yet beareth dreams of 
night ; 
All sleepy seems, and dreameth lazily — 
So I of morns have felt, when over me 

Slow dreams yet float nor make their flight ! 



PEACE. 

A spotless sky — a blue far sea; 

Birds twittering o'er the flowering fields. 

Sweet air-harps, played most solemnly. 
A thought of one who spoke true love. 

Such the Sabbath yields, 
When dreaming near a honeyed grove. 



Flashes of Thought 87 



PERFECTION. 

The thunder in the clouds all quelled. 

The turbulent ocean calm. 
The bird-song in still air is spelled. 

The air and sand respire balm. 



ALVARADOS-VALE. 

The vocal Alvarados-vale : 
With thousand sycamores and live-oaks 
dressed. 
With multitudes of whirring quail ; 
With singing-birds ; and fluting larks all 
blessed. 
To dwell there, with a loving maid, 
Would be calm Eden in this sad world laid. 



AT ARROW-HEAD, HOT SPRINGS. 

How pleasant 'tis to be again 
Near to the babbling brook. 

Or listen to the wind's own strain 
In a canon's sun-lit nook. 
Then all the pleasant past returns and shines ; 
While memory in the sweetness of the sounds 
reclines. 



88 F r a e m c n t s 



>N 



How pleasant, hear the fluting birds, 
That flit from tree to tree. 

Though never hearing maiden-words 
'Tis all I want for me. 
For in the sun-rays are life's purer pleasures 

rare. 
Our soul may find a higher, brighter soaring 
there. 

LINES. 

Fresh lawns w r ith fragrant flowers exhale 
Xo dreamier visions than a long 

Succession of low modulate 

Accordes, fair-strung to some unwritten 
song! 



AGNOSTICISM. 

It claims to not explain deep mystery ; 

How small ! — That there is, in our studies, 
much unknown 
Is in itself a star that guideth brilliantly 

To life beyond, where all high souls have 
gone ! 

FLIRTATION. 

Sweet the view of orient gardens in their glow T . 
Sweeter yet the glances given with no view 



Flashes of Thought 89 

To fair love ! — Yet who would never wish to 
know 
How those flowers smell with all their fresh- 
ening dew! 



CAN'ST THOU TELL ME? 

Can'st thou tell me how the strains 

Of poets weave within their souls? 
That they write without great pains 

Sweetest songs that lead to Heaven's 
goals ? 
What is it breathes fair words within his brain 
To bring to light a strange, unheard-of strain ? 



DRY RIVER-BEDS. 

Swift winds blow down to seaward. 

Dry river-beds love them at most, 
For all their sand doth travel leaward. 

A river in air, the sands are tosst. 



IMPROMPTU. 

Go, dress thyself with sobre garb 
Not like the maple's in the Springtide. 
But like the live-oak's sobre green 
Upon a flowered hill so solitary. 



90 Frag m e n t s 



AT MORN. 

At morn 
When the two luminaries 
On a level are 

And the spirit of morn 
The scents of Shiva carries — 
Wide, and sweetly, and afar. 



THE HUMMING-BIRD. 

Oh ! rare bee-bird ! 
Thy colored pulsating neck : 
Like watched Beauty, gaping in her lucid 
throat. 



THE POISON-OAK. 

The trifoliate poison-oak, 

A deadly friend to its sister-tree. 

Its gloomier green is like a cloak 

Upon the bright-green, harmless tree; 

As a dark design doth color comeliness. 
Beware thou of its sting! 

Once touched, its wound is merciless ! 



Flashes of Thought 91 



THE TIDE. 

To see the tide run out 

Upon the shining bay. 
Its course is a mere crooked bout 

To return with dying day ! 

A DESERT-HILL. 

With as gradual a declivity 

The swarm of Angels speeding down 
As the level line from down a mountain's. knee 

Slides to the far, wide desert lone. 

LINES. 

Sung to slumbers by the moon-fair-cradled sea. 
Sweet consoled that mine own may'st never be. 
Calm warm sunshine; dreamy lapping waves; 
From a love ungilded life such doth the cold 
heart save ! 



ZEILEN. 

Wenn das Herz sich ubergiesst; 
Der Reim schnell aus der Feder fliesst. 
Das ist die wahre Dichterzeit — 
Solch lebet ewig, w T eit und breit. 



92 Frag m cuts 

Nur wenn ein siisser Hauch der Liebe schwillt, 
Dann ist die Feder eifrig, voll mit Werth. 
Nur wenn die Seele gliiht, und iiberquillt 
Mit Wahrheit, hat der Dichter sein Lieder- 
schatz vermehrt ! 

End of California Notes. 



QUESTIONS. 

Tu penses qu'il n'y a pas de Zephirs 

Qui puisse t'embaumer de ses doux delirs ? — 

Reves dans le soir quand le printemps meurt. 

Tu crois qu'il n'y a pas de ruisseau 
Qui avec son murmure puisse t'endormir? — 
Dans l'ete te reposes sur son rive de fleurs ; 
Songes dans le reve du triste oiseau ! 



LIGNES. 

Quand les corbeaux en ligne de paix 

S'envolent de l'ouest a Test — 
lis savent qu'ils laissent un lieu de paix 

Et les heures d'un jour funeste. 
Us savent qui leur attendent 

Ou les sourcils du soleil 
Innondent les pres, comme a la fete des dieux. 

(Written in R. R. cars, 1886.) 



Flashes of Thought 93 



LINES. 

Ere she had heard the dull-toned surge 

Of the wide mountain waves 
That heave Life's all-invisible Sea — 
O, then she leant her golden tress 
Upon the evening's hopeful dirge — 
Then she yet felt the ecstasy 
Of silent longing, that oft laves 

Young maiden's virtuous hopefulness ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

Eloquent eyes : 
The soul's moods in rhapsodies. 
You tell, 

Oh ! fiery eyes ! 
Of the passionate heart its glow. 
I love you well. 

But more, those eyes 
That open in surprise 
And sparkle the soul's pureness 
Innocent knowledge of the heart, 
Oh ! rapture-knowing of the Heaven ! 



94 Frag m e n t s 



IMPROMPTU. 

La beaute du soir n'est pas faire 

Une regularite 
C'est qu'il est bizarre et clair, 

Comme une oeil inspire. 



NOTES. 



Fresh as a flower-embowered stream, 
Where the fragrant violets dream : 
In hearing of the thunder low 
Of some lone, lofty waterfall. 



THE POET. 

As to a solitary pine 

The poet stands : 
Mute, silent, with no song. 
Yet when the wind blows soft 

As to it he sings 

Songs of immortal things. 

(California.) 



Flashes of Thought 95 



LINES. 



Our thoughts they come and go 
Like breezes in the Spring, 

But oft like pure white snow, 
To last but briefest times. 



SONG. 

Where is a nook to live all day 

In perfect happiness ! 
There's not a spot on any way — 

Without Love's loveliness. 

Without our love there's not a place 
Where dwells a perfect bliss — 

Not one nook hath perfect grace 
Without Love's fervent kiss. 



Where is a dell to live always 
Content, without to long — 

Without our love, oh ! nothing stays 
With us, not e'en a song ! 



96 Fragments 



LINES. 

Wild as the ocean — 
Eternal as it be — 
So is mine emotion 
For eternity. 
Wild, wild as the wave landward-driven- 
So is my desire to see soul's Heaven ! 



PREPOSTEROUS. 

If youth were age, 
Eternal life were sweet ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

Oh ! if fair maidens could but know, 
How in my songs I sing their praises. 

Would their soft eyes not sparkle and glow : 
Like dew-dipped roses and daisies? 

They shirk me who their secrets knows 

But all my bashfulness opposes 
To show them what in singing glows : 

Like sun-kissed dew on opening roses ! 

(On board the "Pera," Mediterranean Sea, 1893.) 



Flashes of Thought 97 



IN AFRICA— NORTHERN. 

(1893) 
SONG. 

When health is gone ; 

And my cheeks grow pale — 
Then I'm alone 

And dreary moods prevail. 

But in this life of ours 

Clouds wander ever. 
We smile on sparse-grown flowers 

And sail a broiling river. 

When Health's away 

And laughter no more chimes. 
Then dies joy's lay — 

And fade heart's blissful rhymes. 



R-R-R-EVENGE! 

I sojourned — I saw — I said — 

I sedulously studied — I simmered slightly — 
I had heard here housed some beauty-head . . 

I laughed — I lively went back — took it 
lightly. 



98 Fragments 



WHILE WALKING. 

I saw the shooting-star 
Falling fair and far; 
Falling thro the fire-domes, 
Where legions of spirits reign. 

I saw the lightning of the heat 
In vivid, softest flashes blaze the east. 
While thro the night the murmurs sweet 
Entoned their weirdness o'er the mounts and 
vale. 



NIGHT-WAIL FANTASY. 

(1885) 

High the wan moon pierces the gold-grey 
hordes ; 
Dashes down five beams on the busy pool. 
Weirdly the rays, like five diaphonous chordes, 
Bewail the water-witches' vague-worded 
rule: 

THE RULE. 

Wind in serpent-lines, 
While the moan-moon shines. 
Cling to beams, that bear 



Flashes of Thought 99 

Moans so daunting, drear. 

Wind, Wind, Wind I 

Till fair Mab falls blind 

On some mossy rind 

Swallowed by the pool 

Laved by the bank so cool; 

Dank, like the ozier-groves 

Where mad Oberon roves. 

Trail the resounding strings — 

Flap your filmy wings 

Higher — trailing higher 

To the moons mad fire 

Gliding doz^nz^ard, rushing — 

The pool's pale margent brushing. 

Then high and low — mid-way — 

Xever nod, nor stay — 

So the water-zvitches' rule : 

From the moon to pool! 

Win d — win d — zvin d — 

Till you fall dozvn blind 

On the pool so pale; 

Silver-song, and wail, 

Ripple them round the reeds — 

Till the barm bears beads 

Of sallow-diamond: 

Glittering way beyond 

Thro the forest-fern 

Where sleeps the timid hern! 

Wind in serpent -lines, 

While the moan-moon shines. 

i.nr 



ioo Frag m e n t s 



Cling to beams that bear 
Moans so daunting — drear! 

iff 2|C 3^ 



Five diaphonous flames flash out of sight — 
Dark-dun is the drapery of pool and wood. 

One ghost-cloud swallows all the moon's sal- 
low light : 
Darker than all shoots by a flapping hood. 

Here ! — now o'er the tomb-still pool it frets, 
Like dark specks the sun doth conjure to 
the gaze. 
Wild it whirls passed Syrinx-cursed; passed 
ferny nets ; 
Like dark thoughts, blindly dodges the flow- 
ery maze. 

Like the mind of a child gleams fresher as 
years yearn more; 
Aiid blooms, like the Lotus that loves but 
the sun ; 
So stray amber is shed from the swelling shore, 
Till all the pool with quivering threads is 
spun. 

Then the hood is tipped with scores of dia- 
mond-stone. 
It slackens its frenzy : spreading — floating 
now. 



Flashes of Thought 101 

Water-witches wind up the heavens to the am- 
ber-throne 
And sounds are heard from the hood's weird 
glow: 

the: water-witches' rune. 

Plash by the reeds 
Pan's grief. 
Splash, till gold beads 
Burden the leaf. 
Whisper to the waves 

(Water's delight!) 
Weird-woven tales 

Told but at night. 
Plash, and splash the wavelets, high as violet's 
ambered crown. 
Splash them in thought of Syrinx, sobbing 

her woe. 
Softly, and soothingly, as the moon-moans 
flow. 
Plash, and Splash the wavelets, high as thor- 
oughroot's down. 

Thread your dim wail 

Toply o' the pool. 
Spinning webs frail : 

Yellow and gule. 
Hover in hordes, 

Elfin's afifray. 



102 Fragments 



Ring the beam-chordes 

With LimniacTs loose lay! 

Thread and spin, while the sins of mortals 
make pitiful moan 
Spin your wails in thought of Thisbe, vir- 
tuous virgin-soul. 
Warily — clarily — like Wisdom's wordings 
that world-thro roll 
Hover and croon, while in minds of sluggards 
crafty longings are sown ! 

Waver the thick leaves 

Of the gold pond-lily. 
Watch ! when it heaves 

To the windling chilly. 
Spangle the rushes 

Where the efts emit, 
Spurting blue gushes, 

Bitumen, fire-lit. 

Waver, while in castles crimes are welded, and 
wenches are blooming. 
Watch ! that the elves be chaste like fair Eve, 

ere she bore pain. 
For now, in gold chambers Chastity weeps, 
and sweet words wane. 
Oh ! Continence blooms but where God is : 
where lonely falls are booming ! 



Flashes of Thought 103 



JOTTINGS. 

So slowly rose the beauteous maid — 

Like trodden moss and woodland-growth, 
Slowly doth rise 'neath woodland shade. . . 

Adirondacks (1883) 

*\* ^ *?* 5fC 

O Smile of Conceit ! 
Smiling at thine own feat! 

SjC S|C Jji >j< 

Seclusion is the Blood of Study. — 
Seclusion in city's hubbub the Blood of Wis- 
dom. 

JJC i|C %. JJC 

Hope, sweet face! ah, but too often like a 
chameleon ! ! 

jji 5ji >|< jji 

In the morning air — 
When the birds their praise-carols sing — - 
When the breezes pierce each trembling leaf — 
When the clamors ring clear — 
Now distant, now near — 
When sailors their ships do reef 
When vapors lances fling — 
Then I would dally there 
Inspired be and write 
Write, write. 

(1883) 



104 t : r a g m e n t s 



AN MEINE LIEBSTE. 

O, hier auch, am stillen, einsamen See 
Singen Vogel ihre freudigen Abendmelodeien 
So stimmig, wie Tone in unendlicher Hoh' !. 
Doch mir fehlt die Stimme, so klar und rein — 
Die Stimme, die mich einst entziickte — 
Mir Wonne wiegte, mich so tief begliickte. 

O, sie bluhte, vie eine Rose, im schonem Rosen- 

garten — 
Doch wisset — O, derboten ist mir der wunder- 

volle Blumengarten — 
Mir verboten — die Rose zu betasten ! 
O, sie bluhte, wie eine Rose, im wundervollen 
Blumengarten — 
Um mir mein Langen schwerer zu belasten — 
So bluht sie, wie eine Rose, im Zaubervollen 
Blumengarten ! 

On Geneva Lake's bank {even.) 

(June, 1885) 



And when will she smile, like the crimson 

rose — 
And glow, like the West at charmful even's 

closr I 



Flashes of Thought 105 

O, when will she whisper such accents tender- 
oils sweet 

And lisp the echoes of the Paraclete ! 

O, when .... and angel-spirits, hovering 
about me, say — 

When will she, rushing in mine arms, smile, 
"Yea, yea, yea ! ! !" 

(June, 1885) 



STRAY NOTES. 

And still the smile of coy amorosity played 
around her lips. 

May swathe the words with smoke of cannon — 
And ring the lands with bugle-sounds ! 

To cities, filled with fragrance of the Past — 

And histories now gone — 
Where 'n by-gone years the hours seemed to 
last 

An age — for I was still alone! 
(June, 1885) 

;jc >•< ;(? >fc >jc %. 

Who hath let the breezes in their wantonness 

play! 
Throughout the day, throughout the day ! 
Throughout the night, throughout the night ! 



106 F r a g m e n t s 

When the moon is white — 
When the moon is dead — 
When the stars are bled — 
When the sun and the moon 
Are beshrouded by clouds in a gloom- 
When the sun, on a stormy noon, 
Breaks through — and changes all to bloom? 

(1883) 

5JC $C >!< J|< Jjl 5}i 

As they departed, departed — 

They let their handkerchiefs fly — 

Like the waving wings of pigeons 
Against a blue, hot morning sky ! 

Stray thoughts of a poet are like the clouds 

On a breezy morning's sky — 
They are born sudden — without the vast and 
matured shrouds 

Which hide at noon the world's azure eye ! 

(August, 1883) 



IMPROMPTU. 

Eager waiting in the glittering woods 
For voices welcome and so dear — 

When sudden the breeze-sweetmusicked soli- 
tudes 
The faintest laughter of the gayest hear. — 



Flashes of Thought 107 

Faintly far in distance echoing — 

As a silver pebble through the mere — 

Nearer sounding, laughters brightning, roister- 
ing— 
As the purl upon the deep pool, cool and 



clear. 



In the woods, Milford, Pa. 



L'ART. 

Si on copierait la nature 
Ce ne ferait pas une jollie pemture — 
II faut bien voir — et bien penser — 
Ce qu'on doit fuir, et doit laisser. 
Alors, avec un oeil tout artistique, 
On peint avec sa tete, avec du chic — 
Jusqu'a ce que la Nouvelle peinture 
N'a que les beautes de la nature. 

(While painting- in the woods, Milford, Pa., 1884.) 



AT IRVINGTON. 

The slow sursurrus 

In the sandy cove 
Of Hudson's legendary waves — 
The dreary cloudland 

In the skies above 



1 08 Fragments 



«S 



Like sombre mythy architraves — 

They sing to me 

So quietly 
Of battles won, and battles lost — 
Aft' warriors o'er the main had crossed 
To conquer Indian lands of ours — 
And dawn on them great civic powers. 

RESIGNATION. 

'Tis sweeter far to know 

A heart for thee doth ever flow — 

Than that you dote on one 

Whose pride hath left thee all alone. 

Such blows for me 

And mine alone doth wish to be — 

So love I her rose-bloom, 

Resign myself to such sweet lover's doom, 

'Tis better wait for one 

Who loves thee out of all alone — 

'Tis sweeter loving so 

Than loving one whose pride doth grow ! 

LINES. 

In the half-light of the evening's death 

When no lamps are lit — 
Sudden, ghosts of the past with wan wreath 

All about me flit — 
Then I dream — and I can not say 
Why this life seems like slow decay. 



Flashes of Thought 109 



IMPROMPTU. 

O there are tones of music free 
That set my soul upon a sea 
Fulgent with gemmy waves that roll 

Along so magically — 
With Syrens sporting in the spray, 
With Nereids lute-fair singing all their lay, 
With magic birds, slow-sailing there 
Upon the silvery fluting air ! 

(Written at table, January 29, 1895.) 



QUERY. 

What heavy half impenetrable curtain 

Have the ages woven 
That hides from latest man 

Primeval state of mind — 
Such looms before me while I'm playing 

Songs of great Beethoven — 
And think I how the plan 

Of tones his soul could find 
His soul, new of creation's womb — 

Yet filled with all the heritages 
That rose from tomb and tomb 
Of twenty thousand ages ! 



no Fragments 



NOVELS AND POETRY. 

Why wade through marshes long — 
With deep mud to your knee — 

When with two colored wings of song 
And tender melody 

We sail or dream awing 

And cover all that tedious marsh 
With rushes and wild branches harsh 

In quickest time whiie we do sing ! 



A FANCY. 

In Utopian dalliance let me rest 

On cushions soft, with broidered crest — 

Hearing slow music coming through a golden 

door — 
The strains heavy with passion — 
I seeing dark Houris on the chequered floor 
Lying supinely — or in dusky slumber — 
Then the musicians, without number — 
Enter, and form a dream-procession — 
All the while 

With radiant smile, and not a guile — 
Her own dear lips are whispering low 
And now upon her bosom lies 



Flashes of Thought in 

My head — then in her lap, aglow 

With flowers fragrant — and never sighs 
Are heard — nor moans are made. 
Thus happy — as in Krishna's summer-glade ! 



TO ELLA. 

Her whole fair face is like a rose — 
Her eyes are. hued as veins therein — 

Not as the violet dark — 

But light as is the rose's vein 

When dew-drops whisper : "Hark ! 
" 'Tis morning sings her roscid strain I" 

Aix les Bains, Savoie (1892) 



TO A GIRL IN CARS. 

GENEVA RAILROAD TO SAVOIE. 

Thou hast the depth of Black-eyed Suzans 
Within thy fair and perfect eye — 

Too hast thy lips to kiss 
The shape that bade once Jupiter to love — 

But as it seems, in thee I miss 
The depth of love — that lives untainted 
By slavish pride — and calculation's curse. 
So, though thou art all beautiful, 
It seems in thee love's deepest mood hath not 
a snrinc" ! 



H2 Fragments 



A THOUGHT. 



The heart's and brain's emotions are caused 
by the super-intellect and super-soul of a per- 
son. 



A LILT' 

Winter's but awaiting 

For warmer weather ! 

Naught's our mind elating 

And though together — 
Winter, winter drear, 
Go, get thy bier — 
Let Spring appear, 
With blooms and cheer 
Then we'll go a Maying — 

Ay, I with May — 
All woods will be saying 

That she's a fairy — 
Then Spring, come here 
With blooms and cheer, 
Thou art the peer 
Of all the year ! 

(On railroad cars in Switzerland.) 



Flashes of Thought 113 



BEAUTY. 

I walked with Beauty by the sea — 

O God, I cried so bitterly ! 

For then I saw her flee away — 

Like silent cloud at close of day, 

Over the sea and far away — 

Then was I lonely on the strand 

No beauty on the lovely land? 

Ah, me ! too much of woe and duty 

When gone from earth are Love and Beauty ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

Many a heart must break 

Before they from this terrene dream awake — 
So sweeting! let thine burn — 
Its wound may heal — but its primal fires will 
ne'er return. 

Geneva, Szvitzerland. 



RAFFAELLE. 

When Raffaelle her tiny lips pouts fast 

I know she loves me well — 
That all her Andalusian love will last 



ii4 Frag m ents 

With her'll affection dwell. 
So kiss me, 

Raffaelle— . 
Don't miss me, 
Raffaelle, 
But when I bid thee come to me 
Then whisper all thy love so free ! 



LINES. 



Spain 



A rapture burst in my so weary heart — 
But in a day it did depart — 
And there I felt a fangy smart, 
Where erst had burst to fire my heart ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

On the pinnacle of Heaven's Mountain 

I stood, like one inspired. 
I drank the crystals of its fountain 

Till they from me transpired : 
Evolving to those tranquil evening-clouds 
Whom but the highest mind unshrouds. 

But lo ! upon the wind I glided 

Adown to the world's wild city ; 
And to the low wind I confided 



Flashes of Thought 115 

My soul, till it took pity 
With wretchedness ; till in the mire sank 
My spirit, and from the charnel-waters drank. 

(1887) 



LINES. 

From my lonely chamber I peer into the late 
May-eve : 

The apple-tree, before the door, with its intri- 
cate branches, spins a sombre web; 

The quiet tongue of the lake in the vale mirrors 
the faint glow of the sky : 

A last sigh of the sun ; a line of sallow hue : 

This hue is spun with delicate and dream-bear- 
ing forms of purple darkness. 

Around, the heaven is grey : tinged with a pur- 
ple depth of prophetic clouds. 

The hills are dark, and the town in the vale is 
quiet and solemn — 

And while I peer into this scene of solemn 
quietude, 

My creative mind is lost — -for who, of mortals, 

May venture portray the restful placidness 
of eve ! 

This eve, with its prophetic languor, must be 
felt — it may not be recorded ! 

(1883) 



n6 F r a g m cuts 



THE CITY'S BOON. 

GOLDEN GATE PARK, SAN FRANCISCO. 

Each city must have flowery wilds 
Wherein to keep each healthy there, 

Must guard their parks with sward and fields 
And groves, and copse, and cool rock-lair. 

Must love to let the song-birds be at peace , 

Must never let the fragrant breezes' cease 
Their long melodious whispering. 

For here, one mile from city's din, 

I drink the pure air, sweet as wine. 
As mulse so pure, pure methligin 

While all the sun-rays boonly shine. 
Around me bunchy trees, and wild grass sing- 
ing; 
While boughs of lilacs with the breeze are 
swinging 
And all doth homage to young Spring. 

If shaven swards delight the fastidious eye 
Such trim, and color them with flowers — 

But let such spots be where the azure sky 
Looks down on hidden bee-sought bowers. 



Flashes of Thought 117 

With long wild flowering grasses swaying lays 
Where long the liquid-throated birdling stays 
To dip his song in fragrant nooks. 

If trodden level roads infatuate 

Such tend to — for the liveried lord — 

But then disturb no paths inviolate 
With flowers covered — that afford 

To musing minds such joys that forests give 

Or dreams that by the doe's own covert live 
Fast by the confluence of sweet brooks ! 

(1889) 

QUERY. 

Why should men kill 

When the East is roseate — 

And the evening-minstrels fill 

The delicate air with juicy melody ! 



LINES. 

The dying West 

Grew suddenly so hectic, 

As though a sea of juicy 

Pinks waved ; — as though day's rest 

Were blushing as a rose 

Liquescent in its morning-dew. 

Then all the heavens so ghastly grew : 

The zenith lay in a sable lawn, 



n8 Fragments 



a 



Where the night-stars' herald should be ; — 
Yet tints played rosily. 

But where the pink had flushed — was drawn 
A livid lawn — that melted in Eve's throes ! 

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Sweet as roses in morning's kisses — 

Healthy as air o'er Spring's flowery pasture- 
land blowing; 
She was a Lippi to model our blisses 

She the fair tutor that gave us our knowing. 
Sw r eet as roses when in smiling array 
Healthy as Flora's own breath in the bonny 
dear May ! 

;•; % ^ ^ >1< j}c 

It is not thought that blooms our Wisdom — 
O oft I saw bright parlance come from lips 
Whose motions brought the Wisdom's blush- 
ing— 
As fleetly, O so beauteously fleetly 
As flyeth to the columbine 
The birring colibri — in shine 
Of some bland melodizing sun — 

(The rest illegible.) 

>;< >£ >;< j}i ^c ^< 

And he was found, it was averred, 

With olden thoughts, that seemed to be 

Like ruins of some Forum disinterred, 
At feet of Rome's lost majesty! 

(1887) 



Flashes of Thought 119 

Talent is perfect memory — 
Genius is sweet abandonment. 



The ring of pink of the East 
Upward borne, doth follow 

The setting sun of the West 

Till night fills the zenith's hollow ! 



RIME. 

Absorbe la luce del' un'occho- 
Perche l'Amore ci trova — 

Dammi de la tua un pocco 
Mostrando la vita nuova ! 



LINES. 

O sweet 'tis, culling airy flowers 
On the border of some dream ; 

And smell them, musing in its bowers 
Fast by a lily-whispering stream ! 

Hi 5jC '\' >j< * J{C 

Sweet song doth come to me 
And bloometh as a blossom on a tree — 
No drudging, like man's machination— 
But 'tis my mind's sweet exultation. 



1 20 F r a g m e n t s 



THE WOODLANDS. 



There is a charm the woodlands have 
More fair than that of ocean's wave — 
It is to wander through them thought-alone — 
Unseen — unsought — untrammeled, unper- 
turbed; — 
Their leafy coverings, neath whom winds are 
blown, 
And then a rustling leaf a lonely wren dis- 
turbed. 



LINES. 

The delicate dreams a maiden weaves 

O'er keys of ivory — 
So gently touched — as spray that leaves 
A faint tune on the cliffs 
Of a calm cyprian sea 
Where move, in. dreams, Euterpe's skiffs. 
Oh, the dreamy touch of delicate maiden-hands 

On keys of ivory! 
The spirit sees the cool, cool shades of lands 
That haunt Love's purity. 



Flashes of Thought 121 



THE OCEAN. 

O, Ocean ! heaving ever in thy calm ! 
O, Sea ! hoar cradle of Earth's creations — 
O, Ocean ! surging ever on the white-rosed 

rocks 
O, Sea, that feelest small lives' palpitations — 
O, Waters, blue and green, and white and 

ashen-grey — 
Be roaring in your storms Creation's cradle- 
lay! 

RECOLLECTION. 

Oh, who may summon days of joyous hours 
Appearing like the fair rent rainbow — 

A-glowing through grand clouds, aft' cooling 
showers 
That bathe an eve of waning summer ! 

Who call up those hours of romps and plays — 

Hours of gamboling through orchard-ways. 

Oh ! what a f rolick-fawn I was, in woods 
Of Laurel-Hill ! Where, echoes calling, 

"O frolick on," through oak-tree solitudes — 
Each flower wafted to me futures : 

Lolling on some Cyprus-lawn of flowers, 

Framing fragile forms for Houri-hours ! 



122 Fragments 



6 



How fleet, and fleeter flowing o'er the lawn 
The breeze blew out its tuneful ditties. — 

It blazed before mine eyes a sweet, fresh dawn 
To burn and glow in pensive manhood. — 

Breezes blew so sweetly, promising 

Through the woods in Boyhood-spring! 

EMY. 

It is the angel-child, sweet Emy, 
Who languishes upon the piano-stool 
And gathers with her taper fingers fair Eu- 
terpe's wool. 
'Tis Emy, she the flower with eyes so dreamy — 
'Tis she who shone an angel, so my w r oe 
I bear ; lest my dark thought, in its wild flow, 
Be swallowed up by the wild ocean of Despair ! 
'Tis she, whom Heaven sent as guardian to 

my grief — 
Lest, like an Autumn-swallowed leaf 
My Hope be blown and shattered in Woe's 
trembling air ! 

It is the angel-child, dear Emy — 
Who modulates the keys to harmonies 
Of maiden-sentiment — and from her large 
and questioning eyes 
She purleth tome : "Why so dreamy !" 

'Tis she who bloomed upon my long love- 
way 



Flashes of Thought 123 

When o'er a briery field I was wont to 
stray — 
With hankering — and bled the wounds by rock 
and thorn ! 
'Tis she, whom Life called for a balm to 

love lorn souls 
And when the bell of sorrow tolls, 
To rose the cheek, and gild the mind — like 
brightest Autumn-morn ! 

It is the angel-child, fair Emy — 

Who touches lightly the ivory keys of song 
And threads in thoughts of music sweetest 
strains along — 
While listen I, — and feel so dreamy. 
She singeth softly, as the distant bird 
When its clear song is through the fragrant 
flowers heard. 
Then gazeth she into the sea of visions old : 
There beams a dreamy spark — illumes her 

eyes and maiden-face. 
And with an unpremeditated grace 
Of song, her dreams she streams on me — who 
am so cold ! 

WRITTEN IN RAILROAD COUPE. 

(FRANCE.) 

Oh ! why must all my poems seem 

The semblance of a long-forgotten dream ? 

A dream seen in the soother days of youth — 



124 F r a g m e n t s 

When all the thoughts are sane and couth — 
A dream our boyhood dreamt of maids 
Beguiling and retiring — in the shades 
Of trees, the May-breeze bends so sweet — 
When bees are bombilating in retreat 
Or rich-fumed lilac-bushes in the folds 
Of bunchy haulms ! where marigolds 
Stoop to a Narciss-fancy — and beyellow 
The silent pool ! Of maids that hellow 
Like the far cries of the (illegible). 

Just then the dream broke — as some iridescent 
Curve .... So broke the dream 
And now ! — of its rich essence, but the gleam 
Of the fair burning flames, that were to me 
The attar-gredient of the rose's glee — 
(Illegible) 

THE WATERFALL. 

Here let me rest — and breathe; 

And some fair stanzas wreathe 

So they may have the sheer 

And fresh pulse of the fall so near: 

A quiet fall down twelve- foot-rocks ; 

O'er moss, and with three snowy shocks — 

Till on a bosom of foam they fall, 

Then glassy spread in a wide, clear pool : 

Sweet for five nymphs to bathe so cool, 

As deep as their fair limbs are tall. 



Flashes of Thought 125 

Here let the sprite of silentness 
My calm, resigned mind caress. 
And with the sound make me a mate 
That in such jocund company 
My thoughts again may be elate ; 
And so forget love's misery. 

Yon fall as human beings talks ! 

I hear a plain speech uttered there. 
Anon like disputes, torts and hawlks ; 

And distant laughter, rippling fair. 
And brawls, as in some evening-inn 

In mountain's exuberant tree-fresh air. 
Distinct from thuds of the soft foam; 

Clear as in halls of deep earth-caves. 
Articulate as speech at home. 

Soft as a voice that seeks to win ; 
Exhortive as a voice that saves ! 

Methinks to hear real talkers there. 

All while the rush-rush-waters fall. 
Oh ! so our speech is merely air, 

Let waving by our sigh or call. 
And while the gushing waters tumble — 
And the foam ekes the stones to rumble — 
Then those clear voices sound between, 
As though no other noise had been. 

O mystery of two strange sounds 
Opposing one another, yet 



126 Fragments 



& 



Wave on to reach the aural grounds : 

One rushing — and the other clear. 

So is a law in nature set 

That individual sounds appear 

Most absolute ; and keep their own 

Though twenty other sounds are blown. 

So was it that fair Hellas wrought 

For the snow-waterfall a god, 

And nymphs presiding over them.- 

T'was Homer listened to the falls 

While seated at the forest-hem ; 

And heard the voices rise and wane ; 

So wrote mysterious, wondrous strain, 

Till others thought he told the truth. 

So grew their gods, dowered with long youth. 

Now have I listened to you long, 

Neat waterfall ! and in my song 

Explained God's mystery and laws. 

Yet this great stillness overawes 

My mind. Now that I listened here 

New sounds strike on my busy ear. 

There, in the stillness, the wind's smooth wave ; 

Or stones that crumble in your cave ; 

I feel my presence so alone 

That superstition will be blown. 

And I think spirits watch in there ; 

And I intrude in their solemn prayer; 

While all around is not a life. 

My ears are filled with newest tones, 



Flashes of Thought 127 

That, stayed I here an hour more, 

Methinks I would be mingled quite 

With stillness, falls, and foliage bright; 

Perchance be doomed'to be a voice 

Even in thy dark, dank grottos small. 

But I will take the safer choice 

And leave them, neat, dear waterfall ! 

And hurry o'er the daisy-fields ; 

Past the green hill, that flowers yields, 

To the quiet village, where sound and sound 

My too deep musing-bent confound. 

So will I mingle with those men 
Once more ; yet, on some day, may be, 
I'll visit this green, quiet glen, 
And listen to your mystery : 
Whose secrets only thinkers know — 
Whose sweets only for thinkers flow. 

Ellenvitle, N. Y. (1891) 



AT GENEVA LAKE, SUISSE. 

Where is that surface fair? 

As blue as distant air, 

And calm as is a mirror framed in gold 

That Fatme in her ivory hand doth hold? 

Where are those mounts across the lake ; 

Those mounts that seemed like sapphire pure, 



128 F r a g m cuts 

And seemed in their pellucid azure to endure? 
Where are they while the nor'west cold wind 

rages, 
And caps froth on the riled lake, now brown ; 
And far the mounts are lost in roving banks of 

clouds ; 
While all the scene grows drearier each blast 

of wind ; 
And like a whiff from glaciers is the loud wild 

air? (1892) 



THE MIND. 

Mysterious is the mind ! I close 
My lids — and, swift, I see a scene 
Unknown to me before on earth — 
A moment's time — and yet a day's 
Quaint doings do I act. 
At once my mind conjureth up 
Sweet girls with whom I frolick then. 
Or, on a sailing-vessel fair, 
I hear the sailors chanting free. 
Or, while a multitude is near, 
I gaze upon a burning temple. 
And many other stranger things 
Pass through my mind the while I doze- 
But, strange it is, as soon as I 
Awake, and look around the room, 
As soon the memory of the scenes 



Flashes of Thought 129 

Are, like the film in noontide sky, 
Dissolved — and gone forevermore. 
Mysterious is the mind ! I sleep — 
And strangest things occur to me — 
But when I wake — all has vanished ! 

(September, 1899.) 



A FRAGMENT. 

While my memory is still in dewy lone 
Like the pearls on the morning-glory's throne, 
While my thoughts are still there in thine 

abode, 
Let me sing of thee, fairest flower sow'd! 

I. 

Like the turbulent waters 
Of a mountain-side brook, 
Like the tremulous tresses 
Of the willow so low — 
Thy golden locks in confusion 

there flow, 
Each with fondness true-blesses 
Thy fair brow and soft look, 
And mould a halo round thy features. 

II. 

And when I gaze within the azure dome 01 
thine eyes 



130 F r a g 111 e n t s 

And contemplate the rich and velvet-like hue, 
Then vanish all my pangs and woes and 

mournful, low sighs, 
Like morning sun kisseth a busK's burdening 

dew. 

LIFE. 

A gasp for liberty ! 

A struggle for eternity ! 

And a groan, so deep and loud 

Like the roar from a mountain's cloud ! 

Still now and then a ray 

Of joy — a short delay! 

And thus is life fashioned for toil, hardship — 
The gloss of its garb glitters but a while — 

A while — a short, short while — 
O, like the glare of the thunder's whip 
O'er a dark, low sky, on an Autumn's day ! 

A continual tear of dismay 

A-fiowing down the wan cheek of Man — 

Yea, so the ceaseless founts of Yemen ran — 

O, God ! A vale of disdain 

Nurtured by sorrow and pain. — 

But oh — and too 
A garden of bliss — 
A woman's kiss — 



Flashes of Thought 131 

A sky of blue, 
Dark, wide and rich — 
Like eye of playful witch — 
But oh — and too 
A dale with founts 
And maids athrough 
Ascend the mounts 
Of greenest hue — 
Where cataracts chant 
To fays, in haunts, 
To hearts that pant. 
And all is glow — 
A Heaven below ! 

And Life — a great mutation of bad and good — 
Is thus a sigh — a beat of rapturous blood ! 



QUERY. 

Is it the gleam of brown-beaded beam that 

thine eye flashes forth — 
That in my soul an e'erlasting fresh glow of an 

heaven assumes ! 
Is it the rose-budding bloom that alights on thy 

cheek that consumes 
All of my venturing thee to possess, like the 

Star of the Xorth ! 



132 F r a g m cuts 



ODE TO EVENING. 

This stillness doth bequeath to me a mood 
That prompteth the fair shell to ring — 
A song that suiteth well this quietude — 
Like Angels' saintly communing — 
When Heaven's choir 
Doth faintly rise, as bud's desire — 
Or like the fragrant calm in forlorn wood ! 

Not to the wan bright Hesper is this song — 

Nor to the last cheep in the brake — 
But hollow echoes of this world's strange 
wrong 
Will through its melodies awake — 
Aw^ake to reason 

The hearts of clod, the minds of treason, 
And be for nations like some Michael's thong. 



If naught of dreamy note, nor languid whistle 

From the high-hole, ere to his nest 
He's slunk ; or naught of w T hir, near thistle 
And thyme, ere flies have flown to rest — 
Sounds from my shell — 
A sorrow-flute-tone here will swell — 
That shall incite to war the wronged breast ! 



Flashes of Thought 133 



LYRICS. 

I. 

To slow peruse a pretty party 
Whose laughters are so true and hearty- 
All from the curtained window low — 
While in and out the wizard breezes go- 
To con sweet features radiant, wise — 
Such joy w r ith the deep dreamer lies ! 

II. 

We laugh at them, 

They laugh at us — 

They speak so rudely — 

We speak so crudely; 

Their words phonetic are, 

Ours like the noise in war. 

They think their phrases woo 

The breezes to their thought — 

While we must ^ver rue 

That our sweet tongue is naught — 

So must we laugh at them, 

And they must laugh at us ! 



134 F r a g ui e nt s 



TO SHELLEY. 

While reading Shelley, say I : 

Huh ! Huh ! Ehuh ! 
Oh ! that silver flame of the evening-star, 

Glowing abaft of the world's grey smoke ! 
Oh ! that glare from forth the full-moon's car, 
Sifted thro' clouds that rise from the town ! 
When reading such a starry Light, sav I : 

Huh ! Huh ! Ehuh ! 
Ay, he knew of this world all its wretchedness. 
And, with Shelley, I cannot do but moan and 
moan. Paris (1887). 

REVERIE. 

I would I were a feather, flying with the gale 

westward ! 
Over the Atlantic to fair Milford's dale, 
Where sweetest Delaware doth flow. 
I would she were a feather, flying with the 

breeze westward ! 
From Hudson's banks, from low mounds and 

the seas, 
To Alilford's gorge, wliere flowers blow. 

Oh ! two alone 
And then to be, over all the pain and moan! ■ 

Paris (1887). 



Flashes of Thought 135 



TUBEROSE RICHNESS. 

Love loves lilies, lolling 'long the lane — 

Rare red roses rioting in the rorid morn — 
Passion-flowers playing in fresh jewel-rain — 
Buds o' bleeding-blooms when babes are 
born. — 
Love loves luisant lobes of blandest strands 
Sweet, short curls twitched with rare sap- 
phire bands — 
So she sitteth sweetly, smilings sending, 
To her boonest lovers o'er her bending ! 



MAN. 

Youth's aggressive, manhood's possessive — 

Age is calm — 
Babes are querrellous — senile minds are gar- 
rullous — 

Death is balm! 



LINES. 

Oh ! if the blushing soul 

Of a girl could see 
Her cheeks glow and her lips 



136 F r a g in cuts 

Grow rubi-red — 
She then could tell the whole 
Of Beauty's sanctity. 



CONTENTMENT. 

Again to feel the soft lip-pressure 
Of my own rose-fair treasure — 
To feel her loving arm around me, 
To whom soft love hath bound me : 
It is as when we restless wander 
Through vales that hear the thunder 
Of cataracts and brooks all swollen — 
We smell the perfumes, stolen 
From violet-nooks by temperate breezes. 
Then all our longing ceases ; 
And, all content, we lie adown 
Where peace is from the murmuring forests 
blown ! 



DIEU. 

Le Dieu n'avait pas batie Teglise — 
Mais il a fait naitre sur les coteaux 

L'arbre tremblant dans la changeante bise ; 
Le vallon, et le sourd murmur du ruisseau 



Flashes of Thought 137 



LINES. 

The ribbed clouds of Spring lie high- 
And 'long the horizon grey, 

But still the northwinds coldly blow- 
Throughout the dreary day — 
Why is it so — 

When merry notes should flit and fly? 



SONG. 

The woods were white this morn — 

But winter was long past — 
Spring quickened all the thorn 
In wake of winter's blast — 
And lilies-of-the-valley burst and blew 
While in a nook the pale star-flowers grew. 

My soul was bright this day — 

But joy was long at rest — 
Hope sang to me a lay 

While prone on sadness' breast. 
And sparkling eyes lit up my sadness drear 
While love from woe burst forth with flute and 
cheer! 

Ah ! woods all white with thorn ; 
Oh ! soul, with love aglow — 



138 F r a g m cuts 

Aft' winter — spring is born — 
Aft' woe sweet love-sounds flow. 
And spring doth gladden glade and mount and 

hill- 
While love doth quicken hope and gladness 

still ! 

January (1896). 



BALLAD. 

THE POWER OF MUSIC. 
(Written at Cafe, while band of music was playing.) 

He dwelled alone — 

A king with a heart of stone 

Dwelled in a castle high — 

That heard the eagle's sad, short cry. 

Down below, the waves would roam 

And wail to strains of the sad, sad foam 

That king had a heart of stone — 

And he dwelled alone — alone! 



Came a minstrel there one day — 

And played for the king a low-sweet lay 

Such lovers sing when longing comes 

And builds around the heart strange homes. 

The king had heard the soft, low strain, 

Then flowed a stream like gentle rain 

Around his heart of stone — 



Flashes of Thought 139 

And he swore to live with the minstrel lone 

Who to him such music gave. 

To be balsam still within the grave ! 

Geneva (Aug., 1892). 

DEJECTION. 

My yearnings for those* scenes I loved one 

month ago — 
Are sucked up like the water's flow 
By the hot sun on summer-days. — 
Those drops, that in the clouds dance, proved 
So all unreal that in a shower they 
Fell down again and with the rivers play. 
So are my longings all dispelled — 
For to my w T retched doom they came, 
And make me mournful and so dumb 
That all I would is that Death spelled 
Me with His mythy marvel ways ! 

LINES. 

When two hearts flutter together — 

But when they part ! 
The balmiest, fairest weather 

Will chill each heart ! 

A FLASH. 

The cisterned scrattle of the subterranean 
cricket. 



140 Frag m e nt s 



WINTER-NIGHT. 

(fragment.) 

Methqught, in the dusk of the wintry eve, 

To dwell my sad thoughts in her sweet abode — 

To warm the chilled flow of my bleeding heart 

In memory sweet of the distant one — 

To cheer my poor soul with the hours now 

gone — . . 
To bear the cold wind with the fancy sweet 
That darkling her head in the breeze did nod — 
And eyes, as if passionate fire there glowed, 
To me sweet extasy — feeling told — 
Not even love's burning rose-lips could tell. 

(1882) 

INNOCENSE. 

Oh ! innocent flow of golden tresses 

Adown a shoulder, scarce twelve springs. 
A prophesy of loveliness, 

When maidenhood their fullness brings ! 
O golden, flowing hair, that hides a neck so 

coy, 
O soon those straying curls some lover will 
enjoy! 



Flashes of Thought 141 



AGAIN INNOCENSE. 

Oh ! tender maiden, in days when bashful smile 
thine eyes, 
Thy slender, passionless limbs dream free 
beyond thy dresses. 
And staid thy carriage, borne like Angels in 
the skies. 
With auburn lash, and short, sweet chestnut- 
tresses ! 



TO A VIOLINIST. 

Come, tuck thy violin 

Close to thy delicate chin 

And sway the yielding bow 

As thro' thy mind the melodies flow. 



IMPROMPTU. 

Oh ! see the straggling clouds mount the green 
sides ; 

So low as is the eye — 
With fringed trailings tear the blue pine-trees 

As they fleet slowly by. 



142 F r a g m cuts 



LINES. 

I wish not to delude the eyes of one so fair, 
Xor entangle my fingers in her long golden 

hair. 
'Twere sin — 'twere sin — I say, 'twere sin 
To let vile visions flow her spirit in ! 



SWEETNESS. 

'Tis sweet to gaze at rosy maiden-cheeks 
Athro' a vision-veil of tender smoke 

That forms its fumes from love-fraught mouth 
that speaks 
A language, answering words that Zara 
spoke. 

Oh ! sweet the view thro' dream-blue gossamer 
of. fumes 

So softened, that the face a Hagar-dream as- 
sumes. 

A CURSE. 

Oh ! may thy bones live fresh within thy tomb, 
And may'st thou feel a babe crawl in thy with- 
ered womb — 
Below the earth, the clod pressing on thee, 
Who wert so cruel never to love me ! ■ 



Flashes of Thought 143 



IMPROMPTU. 

Great God ! he worships Thee 
Who loves the perfect-hued flower 
And listens to the languid strain 
That flows from all the pines, that rain 
Such silent needle-showers down. 



LINES. 

The orange sun is back of the pine-fringed hill 
Yet one faint glimmer hangs on the dark 
high pine. 
'Tis gone ! — I dream ! — But the languor of that 
day doth still 
Haunt me. Anfl, too, her smile that was di- 
vine ! 



IMPROMPTU. 

And building blossomy bridges o'er the blue. 

That blow with sweetened winds. 
So treading lightly to the towered home 

With silver-founts and dappled hinds. 



144 P r a g ]11 c n t s 



AT NIGHT. 



And one star alone 
Thro' the hazy heavens shone. 
An awe around, in airy realms 
An awe, that overwhelms 
The mind ! There sounded dull 
With ringing laughters so doleful 
The mountain-streams. 
Where the evening-sun had fallen 'baft the 

peaks 
There paled, thro' broad blue clouds and dark- 
grey streaks, 

A few wild livid gleams ! 

(1884) 

I 

A MOOD. 



I am like the hot summer-air, 
That taken shape 

Yet hath no shape : 
Vibrant with heat ! 



Flashes of Thought 145 



WOMAN. 

Sweet are the feelings 

That women inspire ; 
Sweeter than reeling, 
Or incense-fire — 
They come and go as dovelets whirr or sail ; 
And are as soft as are their breast, so. creamy- 
pale. 

Sweet is a woman 

Restraining her passion ; 
Made for a true man. 

To love Love's fair fashion. 
Naught else doth feel so sweet as soft-stirred 

blood — 
When woman thrills us — she a beauteous wo- 
man-bud ! 

IMPROMPTU. 

So chalky w r hite. 

As the locust's belly strange; 
Or as the spot on either side its wings. 
So, in the night. 

Draped in ermine, she would range 
And mutter words inherent with wild things. 



146 F r a g m cuts 



DIRGE. 

Birds are calling — 

Leaves are falling 
In the last, lone month of the year. 

Love lies bleeding, 

Woe is leading 
A sad life with one large storm-cloud tear ! 

Flakes are falling — 
Birds are calling 

In the bitter breath of the year. 
Woe is bleeding- 
Love lies bleeding 

On a pillow, wet from one large tear ! 

LINES. 

Thou lutist, let low hillings linger long in 
Love's fond land! 

Thou flutist, flow thy flitting flute-notes, fit for 
Flora's bartd ! 

Thou harpist, hallow Heaven's halls, with har- 
monies so high and hoar. 

Thou lyrist, let thy lyre-lays lull Love with lov- 
ing lilts and lore ! 

( 1890) 



Flashes of Thought 14.J 



IMPROMPTU. 



A brain, brimful with showy dress, 
And scant of love's own loveliness ; 
Such do parade in summer-towns : 
Displaying tinsel, jewels, and gowns 



FLASHES OF THOUGHT. 



I. 

The fundamental currents run 
With the fires of the sun. 
And all we do not see 
Flows to immortality ! 



(1890) 



II. 



When the body is weak, 
The soul cannot speak. 
When the body is strong, 
Bursts forth the immortal song! 



148 Fragments 



III. 

The fluid intoxicant 

Doth permeate my brain. 
I may do what I want 

Perform any marvelous strain. 
It seems death is oblivion. 

If, when we die we have supernal 
powers, 
So will I die ; and in Elysium 

Sing songs, sweeter than sumptuous 
summer-showers ! 



LINES. 

I love to dip 
My head upon some bloom 
Of rare, unknown perfume 
To see the silver-bees 

Aft' honey sip. 
So, often ! — till the day-hour flees 
So like a fallow leaf upon 
The quiet flow of swale-stream lone ; 
'Round whom the alders cluster ever ; 
The glories sleep ; the low reeds quiver ! 

(1886) 



Flashes of Thought 149 



LINES. 

The moon's light is above 

The thick broad night-born cloud, 
'Way in the darkling grove 

The night-owl shrieks aloud. 
Will not the moon appear? 

The cloud e'er rises higher — 
The owl is filled with fear. 
For not to-night his desire 
Is gratified ; — no moon 

Arises — for the cloud 
Rises and rises, till its noon 

Makes moan the owl loud. 
So shines a light for man. 

Yet clouds e'er pall his moon. 
So is great Nature's plan : 

Reflecting our's — thought's boon ! 

IN THE ADIRONDACKS. 

(1882-1884) 

THE BROOK. 

Before me flows the brook in placid dreams. 
To right and left it rushes on, meseems, . 
As Scandinavian torrents wild. 



1 50 Frag m e n t s 



Still, with a forest-incantation soft 

To the slow sunlit scuds that sail at ease aloft. 

It modulates to sounds so mild 

As though it sang to some unseen sweet an- 
gel-child ! 

To left, where white grow the waters o'er scat- 
tered stones 
A sister-brook embraces with infantine delight 
her brother's tones — 
A sister, flowing down gradations number- 
less, 
Irregular, protruding, glittering bright; 
And caverns small, where sleep the brook- 
drops as at night. 
A sister, that chants, with voice to bless, 
Her clear, canorous madrigal in perfect 
peacefulness. 



IMPROMPTU. 

So sparkled the eyes of fny fairy-queen 
As in the dark niche of a moss-hung stone 

The drops of a spring in richest sheen 

Sparkle in the glow of the sun-shine lone ! 



Flashes of Thought 151 



A LITTLE CHILD. 

The evening blaze was flaming fast — 
A little child was gambolling. 

The red burned to its smouldering last- 
A little child was trillering. 

I sat in thought with Thackeray — 
Indoors, near by the window. 

A five-year child, in sportive play, 
Ran up and down the verandah. 

It pressed its heavenly face on the pane ; 

And it smiled ; and it beckoned to me. 
I nod my head, and lost all train 

Of thought that travelled thro' me. 

It vanishes — appears again ! 

And peers into the chamber. 
But I read on ; and I now feign 

To be in lands of amber. 

But sweet, oh ! cunning, little child 

It raps upon the window. 
And smiles at me, with dimples mild. 

Out on the verandah ! 



152 Frag m e n t s 



Oh ! child, little angel with curls 
The heart that dwells within thee, 

O keep it safe ! till little girls 
Will surely rob it from thee. 

And now I smile ; and nod my head. 

Its eyes are laughing, laughing. 
It rushes on with trampling tread — 

I hear it laughing, laughing. 



EINSAMKEIT. 



Ertonet, Lieder meiner Leiden 
Derweil der Nordwind brausst. 

Erschallet laut mit seinem Schweigen 
Wenn fern er im Gebiisch dort saust. 

O tonet, Lieder, Leiden ohne Zahl. 

Ton't weit und breit die Schmerzen 
Wie der Wind jetzt allzumal. 

Durchbebet unsere Herzen. 



Flashes of T ho it g h t 153 



IMPROMPTU. 

As if the sparks resillient were 
Augmenting thus the lurid blaze. 

And would with full-blown, breezy stir 
The flames to starlit heaven raise. 



A CHILD. 



A dusk-eyed child — 
Of countenance mild. 
With dreamy mood 
In bright childhood ! 

A mouth with a smile— 
A dimple to beguile — 
A visionary gleam — 
A child; — a dream. 

Its wild-flown hair — 
Its brown hand fair — 
A dream-doomed child 
Of countenance mild. 



154 F r a g m cuts 



What dreams of gold, 
When thou art old! 
Oh ! blessed ! — Oh ! cursed ? 
By the Dream-god nursed — 
A tale so often told ! 

(1883) 



WHEN THE AIR GROWS COOLER. 



There are voices in the mountains : 

A clattering, shouting throng. 
The dark, grey clouds that are floating, 

Tell me the throat to such shouting song ! 

The West-wind carries the voices ; 

It carries the dark, grey clouds. 
The black prophets are thronging the moun- 
tains ; 

The rain streams from the shrouds. 

Some lone, white vapors creep up the ledges ; 

And fade the mountain-trees. 
The cawing birds assemble : 

Sure trysts for prophesies ! 



Flashes of Thought 155 



LINES. 



The tremulous trees, afore so agitated 

By the passion of the Vesper-wind, 

Which, like a wave against wild Scheria's 

shore, 
Surged of a sudden towards the multitude 
Of ramous trees on the mountain-sides, 
Are now, when to the sun is said farewell, 
Of a tranquillity, as a desert mournful 
And fully feign the tranquil heavings 
Of a happy maiden, when aft' the "Yes" at 

night 
She folds her arms around her bosom 
For joy and extasy, super-sensate, 
And wishes ever to be thus : 
To press her bosom 'gainst her knees 
That her heart may beat against her flesh 
That soul and blood and heart may be 
Forever one, to lock her body 
So firmly that her bliss may venture not 
To moments of wild dismay — 
In tranquil bliss she thus may stay 
Till turmoils come with coming day ! 

' (1883) 



156 Frag m e n t s 



NOTES. 



Like the sursuration from a charming Eng- 
lish girl. • 



What Goddess haunts my thoughts to-day 
I feel so restless; sore at heart? . 



The thunder is rolling round about me. 

Rolling as tho' some gigantic rock 
Were riven in twain, and rolled downward, 
Down a rocky cliff — a huge, huge block. 



Who may boast of works more wondrous 
Than the forms of clouds at even? 



A hue of blue, 
Exceeding: soft 



As if aloft 



& 



White angels flew ! 



Flashes of Thought 157 



LINES. 



She trod adown the hill, like a knight of old 
Adorned in raiment black and mystical 
Her garment fluttered ; her swaying was such 
It seemed she were vision-rapt Joan of Arc. 
So bold and still, withal with feeling feminine, 
She was a mate for me, the mystic one ! 



LINES. 



O glorious, wonderful cloud of August-sun 

Slowly lagging from North to South, 

The wonderful form, with body grand and 

magic, 
Is slowly torn to clouds of lesser girth, 
Which, growing ugly while they onward sail 
And grey their color turns from orient-hues 
At last do vanish to small vapors only — 
So the vision of a youth doth vanish, 
One by one the glistening promises do shift, 
Till, of that hope so welded, grand, entire, 
He sees but torn images — and all hath flown 

in years of manhood ! 



1 58 Frag 111 cuts 



LINES. 



I love to watch the playing shadows 

Bask over a waterfall. 
The sun's imaginings paint shadows 

Upon a forest's waterfall. 
The sun's rays, like friendly Spirits, I feel 
Fall upon me, lonely youth. 



A SIMILE. 

Like a brood of water-gnats 
Huddle in confusion 
O'er a forest-brook — 
So huddled they : 
Without thought, crushing each other badly. 



POETRY'S VALUE. 

The words are not a poet's salient qualities — 
His thoughts, his noble prophesies are more. 

We look not at the flower-varieties — 
We wonder at the garden foreveremore ! 

(1884) 



Flashes of Thought 1 59 



SOLITUDE. 

O Solitude ! unfearing Monarch of gloom ! 

I am thy devout subordinate. 
Was it for always, or but for a time my doom 

To be thy friend — and the world to hate ? 

Keene Valley (1883) 

TO WOMANKIND. 

O Woman, Woman, with all thy fascinating 
charms 
I scorn thy fickle thoughts and waylaying 
eyes. 
I, like the wounded lion, brooding o'er the 
hunter's arms, 
Wish but for one weapon against thee that 
all defies ! 

Oh ! what is the weapon I must take to o'er- 
master thee ? 
Oh ! where may I find the bodkin, able to 
draw the blood? 
The blood from out the flesh of thy winsom 
sigh; 
The blood which flows, like a growing brook, 
x to a flood ! 

(1883) 



i6o Fragments 



DU NACHT! 



Weil' auf mir, du dunkles Auge; 

Ueb' deine ganze Macht : 
Ernste, milde, traumerische, 

Unergriindlich', siisse Nacht ! 

Nimm mit deinem Zauberdunkel 

Diese Welt von hinnen mir- 
Dass du iiber meinem Leben 

Einsam schwebest, fiir und fur ! 

(1882) 



MY MOODS. 

I'm a moody child, like the clouds 

Ever and ever changing. 
When they lag, with blackened shrouds, 

They are always complaining. 

When enthusiasm, like the wind 
Tears my passions, as to cloudlets — 

I'm great in thought — not blind — 
I divulge life's mysteries ! 

(End of Adirondack Notes.) 



Flashes of Thought 161 



A LILT. 

Come to me on some gloomy day 
And you'll be my light o' sun — 

You'll sing me a roundelay, 

I'll kiss you, when all is done ! 

(1906) 

MUSIC. 

The emotions of the soul into sound to resolve 
Is fair Music's sublimest and final endeavor ! 

A FLASH. 

The wild, wild world of thought 
Focussed in one quick glance ! 

STRANGE. 

O strange, the soul is purer than the clay, 
For she who was begrimed and sad 

Felt conscious of love's diamond ray, 
Forgetting that she soiled raiment had — 

So is love of the soul and look not low 

Whether the body's dress is all in glow. 



162 Frag m e n t s 



A CHANGE. 

A sullen, heavy cloud 

Hung o'er our mutual sky — 
And Myrtle cried aloud — 
She would my love deny. — 
How dark and gloomy were those days to me — 
When Myrtle would no more my fond dove be. 

But now the sky is clear, 

Bright jewels sparkle at morn 
And jubilant songs I hear 

Again Myrtle's love is born — 
Ah! sweet the feeling, aft' wroth hours, once 

more 
To know that Myrtle loves me as before ! 



A WISH. 

O let me lie on shady lawns — 
Where twittering birds enliven all — 
And gaze on lovely dancing-maidens — 
Sweet-draped in short gauze raiments bright; 
And let my eyes entranced dream 
With all their motions, poetry-swayed. 



Flashes of Thought 163 



And see their graceful arms bend over 
Their flower-wreathed tresses brown; 
x\nd mark their tripping feet ; or see 
Their rosy limbs move to the rythm quaint 
That tells of thoughts and fancies sweet 
Whom fairest poet wrote for dreamy minds. 
So would I dream all day in sunny June — 
While birds their tuneful carols sweet entone 
For such was life when thoughtful were we 

all — 
And loved rare Beauty from our soul's own 

depth — 
When yet fair nature all our hearts enthralled 
And were not chained to show and pelf and 

greed. 

(March, 1898) 

FOUNDATION. 

The tree its roots sends through the soil — 

Foundation strong for hundred years — 
A talent knowledge gets through toil 

Rich store, that fame and riches rears. — 
The tree its several branches spreads o'er one 

same ground — 
A talent loves his own same likings to pro- 
pound. 



164 Frag m en t s 



The orbs that roll by stormy ways 

Through space — they travel wildly on — 
So genius covers with his lays 

The realms of moon and fiery sun — 
The orbs must on — forever new fields do they 

see — 
So genius builds now here now there— with 
mood so free ! 

EVOLUTION. 

While in the warmth of the genial stove — 
I felt the chill of the wintry eve — 
While list'ning long to the embers' song — 
I heard the dole from the gloomy wood — 
While in the joys of my youthful love 
I know that age soon must weep and grieve — 
While steeped in dreams that to manhood be- 
long— 
I see the distant, dark Angelhood ! 

CONSOLING THEE! 

If men do calumny against thee — 
If men do wrong, and basely cheat thee — 
If they, by smallest spite, defeat thee — 
If men do calumny against thee — 
Care not — oh! work away — 
At things commanding thy doom-day. 



Flashes of Thought 165 



Work, work — and though they wrong thee — 
Work, work — and though they throng thee 

With thoughts to work no more — 
Rest thou with Heaven rare — 

And her in tears, implore 
To give thee strength to bear ! 
Work, work at thy doomed task — 
And never mind if men do ask 
Of others to do thee a wrong — 
Lift up thy voice in song 

To Heaven — 
She blesses all who bear and bear — 
For She hath with Her Death so rare ! 

Oh! Death — sweet Angel Death — 

Who takes to Heaven our Breath — 
To us is given ! 



LINES. 

'Tis sweet to be a poet 

For feelings fair of youth , 

Are reverbrant in his breast 

And all true poets show it 

By singing songs of truth 

Till in fair death they find their rest! 

(1899) 



i66 Frag m e n t s 



FIRE-WRITING. 



Whilst lost in copy of my verses — 
Methought a voice — nay, nay it spake 
To me — I heard it echo make 
Within my mind : — "When all-inspired, 
Thou copiest but what Heaven dictates; 
Therefore thy nervous pen is swift 
And penmanship can never glow." 
'Twas thus I learned to know 
Why swiftly write I — and my gift 
Of fair hand lost. The song elates — 
How can one write as snails do move — 
The fire of the theme, the song you love 
Pervades the hand — it hastens on — 
So that the copying must be quickly done. 
Just as when writing what you hear 
Within the mind, the soul — the Spirit's Ear- 
Electric hand ! — hast lost the calm 
Of fairest penmanship, that once at school 
Was the example — now thy palm 
Is fired by the flames, of not a rule — 
But of the impulse, Heaven-inspired. 
Oh ! therefore when I copy — all is fired 
Again with that quick sense, that's given 
To the inspired bard — from fair far .Heaven ! 



Flashes of Thought 167 



A MOTHER'S EYE. 

O, how blissful the eye of a mother, 
It beams at the sight of her child — 

O, a radiance of Heaven shines from it — 
A passion of softness grows wild ! 

O, when far on old farmsteads of former 
Delights, how the eye is aglow ! 

"O, here, when I kissed May in the orchard, 
"How chubby she looked — but anow ! ' 

And the mother speaks wildly in accents — 
She wishes her child at her side — 

O, her eyes spark the passion of fondness — 
The eyes of a mother are wide ! 

(1882) 

LINES. 

It is the subject rare 
That makes a poem fair — 
When thinking on soft love 
Or flowers in May's sun-grave 
The poem will contain 
Mellifluous sweet strain — 



168 F r a g m e n t s 



If sordid thoughts engage 

The poet's mind — or rage 

Be flaming in his heart 

The beauteous songs depart — 

All that is born is bare 

Of sweetness fresh and fair — 

So let a poet's mind 

In life sweet joyance find 

Then will his songs be fair — 

As Californian air 

When February brings 

Soft winds so Flora sings 

And rocks and hills and vales 

Are teeming with flower-tales — 

So is it love or glow 

That makes a song in beauty flow. 

SUN-PICTURE. 

'Tis glorious, after rainy days, 

To see the pompous sun stride forth 
And scatter far and wide his rays 

While clouds are riven by wind of north. 
Then is it as, when eyes, 
That bring soft lover's surprise, 
Beam forth their fond affection true — 
With warmth our joyous heart imbue! 



Flashes of Thought 169 



IMPROMPTU. 



Blow ! wind of South — 
And cradle the boat 
That lieth afloat 
? Xeath boughs in bloom : 
That hang soft over 
The marge of the lake. 
Blow ! so her mouth 
Two roses afire — . 
May answer the desire 
Of her own lover, 
Three words of doom : 
To thrill my soul awake ! 



LINES. 



The equinoctial storms arise 
And us with chilly winds surprise. 
Oh ! how they make of sunny trees 
A sound-sake of the seething seas ! 

Geneva, Suisse (1891) 



170 Fragments 



A QUANDARY. 



Is fame, but a name, 
And wealth but a stealth — 
Is love but to prove 
She's made for to trade? 
Is all, great or small, 
A shame, and a game ; 
And naught, not e'en thought, 
Is truth? Well, forsooth! 
It seems that my dreams 
Are fairer and dearer 
Than most of life's host 
Of things, that man brings 
To youth ; when forsooth, 
Age shows that all goes, 
When gold hath a hold 
On man and his plan — 
Then Soul, me control ! 
I'll dream — and I'll seem 
Above — with my love 
For beauty and duty — 
The host that are lost 
To thought and to God! 



Flashes of Thought 171 



MARCH-WIND. 

I was alone 'neath Nature's domes — when 

March 
Wailed out in waving song its sad farewell — 
To die ! and gird a wreath of harmonious moan 
Around its tomb ! Nor wept its mourners tear- 
less — 
For vapors circumambient spent their grief 
Upon the scar, and dampened fields. 

Within 
The bounds of one bare wold I stood — and 

watched — 
And listened ! and the awe of Nature came 
Upon me, as a spell, by ancient magic wrought ; 
The heavy surge flooded the crests — and sound 
On sound fell, like a prophet who outpours 
His deep-inspired revelation ! Songs 
Of many voiced grievings swelled all over ; 
While sorrows sighed with piercing anguish ; 

woes 
Of Winter's turmoils dragged their burdens 

on; 
Unclogged, they fell upon the crisp of some 
Uncalled-for wailing, that sped through the 

trees 
With fleeter strain. 



172 Fragments 



Methought there moved along 
A gown of wild-tuned harmony — with tunes, 
That died or lived, as folds grew zones, or 
vales ! 

Methought that mighty wind was mystic 

shroud, 
So huge, encompassing the eye-viewed hemis- 
phere — 
And rolled its groans and moans — its voices 

sweet — 
Its sighs and cries all over our earth! 
And when it swelled before me, tunelessly, 
It rent between my listening ears — and each 
Torn film did harp a song its own — for me 
To hear, and marvel at ! 

O, wondrous song! 
Unutterable its sway — untuned for lyre, 
For lute, or organ's tones, majestic borne! 
O, song of wind — when March is dead; and 

thou 
In songs of wondrous harmony dost outpour 
The various feelings, deep-enshrined within 
That Heart ! O, wind, thou moanest what had 

thundered 
Ere thou wert born ! Twin-child to sound, that 
far 



Flashes of Thought 173 

In Time's unknowable womb had flooded 

chaos ! 
Thou, Wind! art ever mystic, as the grief 
In man's quaint heart! Unknown to all thy 

voice ; 
Alone to Heaven is thy Song disclosed ! 
Mysterious Sound of Wind ! 



O NIGHT! 

O Night! Thou mighty mesmerist! 

Thou ensleepest all men's thoughts, as 
though 

To never think again! — So slow 
Thy workings thro the day, that whist 
Are all our broodings. A weirder tryst 

Than some crazed lover's thou dost show 

When quietly the night-winds blow — 
That never daemon-lover has wist ! 

What shapes and dreams will rise! 

When thy sway sweepeth well 
O'er all our thoughts — our eyes! 

And only Day dispells 
Thy power; — and Twilight quells 

What streamwise on us fell ! ! 

Paris (1887). 



176 Lost Love 



PROEM. 

Echoes from across the sea 

As they ring within the ear 
Of my lover's memory — 

If you hearken, you shall hear 
Melodies as sing the sylphids gay — 
Symphonies as strikes the storm's affray. 

Echoes from across the sea — 

She is singing all the day — 
All the day I listening be — 

And withon a tablet rare 
I would love to carve these songs that 

come so gay 
From those lands, where redolent is all 

the air ! 

SONG. 

Though storms and tossing waves 

Atween our loving be — 
Sweet recollection saves 

Me from forgetting thee ! 

Though years of tears and sighs 

Have parted us so long — 
My sweetest melodies 

Recall the long-gone song! 



Lost Love 177 

Though billows part us, love — 
Three thousand miles of sea — 

At wake of morn, my dove, 
My dreams do image thee ! 

Though tempests intervene — 

Though years of sighs have flown — 

Sw r eet memory hath seen 

Thee like a blossom blown ! 



INTERLUDE. 

The Poet's pabulum is Phoebus' song — 
The Poet sings it in a weaker voice — 

What paean wakes his soul, with throng and 
throng 
Of carols for his thirsty pain as choice ! 

Upon pactolian shores he rests and sings 
To runes he found in some Utopia — 

Remorseless beats his heart — his conscience 
flings, 
Content and happy, to the breeze a lay ! 

Cool Limat-breaths reveal his firm, broad brow 
Revered is he by passing swain — his shoon 

Bear him to hallowed regions — at the prow 
Of Glory's barge he chants of poet's boon ! 



178 Lost Love 

O, throng and throng of carols come as choice 
For him to soothe his thirsty pain — the song 

Of Phoebus sings he in a weaker voice — 
The Poet wends Pactolus-stream along! 



LOVE. 

My love is like the night 

That, with her million stars a-beaming, 
Is constant in her glorious might 

To cause all to be dreamnig! 
My love shall beam as yon bright star 
That beams when no more stars there are ! 

My love is deep a' the sea, 

That though it dream to rain in heaven 
Re-deepens from the river's glee, 

From eternal sources given — 
My love shall well as freshest springs — 
Though dry — well up when Hylas sings ! 

My love is like the sun 

Whose rays, at night, at day, are shining 
Upon this globe of planets one 

The fairest — without declining — 
My love shall glow as glorious noon — 
Irradiate as midnight's moon ! 



Lost Love 179 



TO MY LOVE. 



Lo, above the calm-wide sea 

Slumber storms and breaths of air — 

O'er night's tranquillity 

Flash the meteors — everywhere — 

Lo, love's waiting trusts in recognition — 

While love's thought is live with song's igni- 
tion ! 

And the vessel sails away 

To some port's luxuriant shore, 
And the stars in glow array 

Warm the skies forevermore — 
And love's skiff shall waft to summer's glow- 
ing 
Love's sincereness shall be ever growing! 

PERAMBULATION. 

Over the dunes I am wandering away — 
Wave the long grasses like flames on the 
plain — 
Down the sand-hollows — and up the sands 
gray- 
Dreaming of her — while low rumbleth the 
main. 



180 Lost Love 

Cull the small glory, whose tendrils the wind 
Blows, like the tresses of wayward, fair 
girls- 
Kiss the rose-petal — and tears make me blind — 
One long, faint sigh — and away the wave 
swirls ! 

On the dune-heights watching gulls in the gale 
Far the grey billow T s close follow the sky — 

Crying full deeper than roar with its wail — 
Down the arched ocean my love-longings 
fly! 

Over the dunes I am wandering astray — 
Lonely — save winds blowing grasses — the 
sea 
Sounding and sighing — and running away — 
Dreaming of her — while the winds follow 
me ! 

OCEAN-ORIZONS. 

Wilt thou tell me where the sea 
Learns its weird-toned melody — 
Nay, such battle-symphony — 
All melodious tragedy — 
Light Terpsychorean sharps — 
With the plaint of flutes and harps — 
Nay, such all harmonious throng: 
Quiv'ring to a Syren's song. 



Lost Love 181 

Nay, such weird, unearthly groans — 
Calm and ominous undertones 
Topling sounds — and headlong strains — 
Rumbling as from thundering wains — 
Then again such singing sweetness 
Borne upon the wind's own fleetness 
Through the surge, and crisping caps — 
As each wave and wave o'erlaps. 
Then a wail — a cannon-boom — 
Quiet as the day of doom 
Till the chopping waves upcleave — 
Till old Charon's people grieve. 



INTERLUDE. 

Of various man the singer brings 
Most joy! to others, as himself — 
As sweetly as the bird he sings — 
Like it for no reward nor pelf. 
O, chime thy bells, O village, for the singer 

sweet — 
For with no singer earthly life is ne'er com- 
plete ! 

The writers for the day must toil — 

Delve deep in books man wrote of yore — 

But like some sumptuous orient soil 
The singer's fields bud evermore — 



182 Lost Love 

O, task and plague breed gruesome stories 

overtold ; 
O, Heaven's blessing! singers warble of wood 

and fold ! 

Tis as the breezes come to blooms — 

'Tis as the clouds shape fancy forms — 
His songs tell of man's joys and dooms — 
And sudden come like summer-storms — 
They will believe not that the singer's soul is 

true — 
Will they believe that Heaven be above earth's 
blue? 

Of various man the singer strows 

Most fragrant flowers on life's path — 
His song shows as the morning shows 
And as the evening lesson hath — 
O, if ye love the stars — our mountains and our 

flowers — 
Be under his vast blessings — they are Heaven's 
bowers ! 



A COCKLE. 

Oh! just as shell — the refuse of the sea- 
Cast on the shore as though for nothing- 
Into my hand I place it — and a tear 
Rolls on it as its miracle I hear : 



Lost Love 183 

Though I am on the lonely sea-sand stretches — 
Away from soundless clefts of ocean's 
reign 

A man takes joy in me- — for he is learning 
One secret more of Nature's lore-immane. 

And in my soul transposed : my life 

So insignificant that it may be 
To some wayfarer on the shores of strife 

May shine a light to God's eternity. 

WOOL-GATHERINGS. 

It is late afternoon — already mists 
Descend upon the headlands looming up 
Like lofty thoughts in sorrow's love-lorn 

dream ! — 
Already shine the headlights on the rocks 
Forever snowed by spray and froth — the glare 
Of sempaphores in circles fills the gloom 
With half a cheerfulness and half a dread. — ■ 
The chill of autumn swamps the cliffs — it wets 
My cabin's walls, and burdens the briny blare 
As on the panes it clatters, and trembles aloof. 
It is late afternoon — before the fire 
My thoughts are wandering afar — but sudden, 
Distracted by a flame outside the grate, 
They stream into my eyes, observing quick 
What novel works be there , performed. At 

noon 



184 Lost Love 

Athrough the bare sea-wold I strayed alone — 
Yet leaves were tears to branches — on the 

ground 
They lay like ruffled pools that image hues 
From rose, and hazel, and the colored vine ! 
It is my wont to gather leaves, and bring 
Them to the room, where there they serve to 

warm 
The ingle, ere the massive fuel blaze 
And laugh with muffled sound. It was a leaf 
That flamed — it was a fallen leaf whose life 
Was spared — yet now imported by its new, 
Unwitnessed consummation some new thought, 
Some law which since escaped my mind and 

eye. 
And from the roaming dreams — stand inquir- 
ies 
Upon the edge of thought, like chamois fleet, 
Upon the verge of Alpine precipice. 
I gaze into the fire — a motioned blaze 
Whose motor are the freed atomic parts 
Of wood and anthracite — impulsively 
With warmed acceleration flung up through 
The flue, whose channel draws them to the air, 
Wherein their attenuated substance grows 
A part of cosmic element — ether's compound. 

A heat surrounds the impetuous blaze — it 

warms 
The ingle, tingles brow and cheeks, the air, 



Lost Love 185 

That keeps the life in me, it frees from cold 
And dampness. So the flapping flames evolve — 
Their birth was the quick rubbing of a 

growth — 
Unsentient mineral — that, by man's work, 
A latent kindler lay, till need required 
Its fire-effect. The savage strikes the flint — 
Civilization found earth's phosphor, showed 

its us^e — 
But here I see the leaf burn where no hand 
Struck fire, nor have mechanic means ex- 
changed 

The dried cells for light and heat, as true 
As when transcendent thoughts eke in the soul 
No earthly agent was their tutor, they glowed, 
They flashed the psychic miracle that thought 
Is bred from supernatural influences ! 

At moments ! Here the element had touched 
The leaf; its million lives concentrated 
Withon the surface — mingling swiftest atoms 
With those of dead-repose — lo, without flame 
To kindle — without visible light to grow a 

fire — 
The leaf, away from the combustion — burned ! 
Tempestuously the gale is sounding all — 

The night does penetrate within my room — 
Eidolons hover at the lattice — hark ! 
As manes mourning, scream the homeward 
gulls. 



186 Lost Love 

A thud anear the casement — birds come flock- 
ing, 
Attracted by the glimmer on the panes — 
All calleth up hoar alchemists in deeps, 
With crucibles at work — in vain endeavor 
To obtain their subtle, pure elixir — all 
Confusedly seeks quiet contemplation. 
But as my brain whirls, and is smitten sharp 
By endless thongs of thought — so is the sea — 
The air, the headland, and the very hut. 
In midst of whistle-shriek the flames flap, 
The crackling ingle throws its heat around — 
And all my thought is steeped in how the leaf 

Burned up without ignition. Like some Faust 
Whose weary hours bred uncanny thought — 

and led 
His philosophic mind into the covers 
With lichen greyed and burned by centuries^ — 
Of supernatural lore, and mystic lay — 
So delves my curious thought in unknown 

mines 
Of knowledge all beyond the physic-teacher. 

Instead of invocations magic-threats 
At the low fire-world — my asking soul 
As even in the dawning air the lark 

With trusting song inspired, scales up to 

Heaven — 
There being bathed in living light, as even 
The joyous morning-warbler in the sun's! 



Lost Love 187 

Though by the cliffs the surge swells — near 

the oak 
There wail the winds — in contemplation's sky 
Serenely float I — as A rosy cloud 
Of eve ; but this the angry fire hears — 
And this the glimmering panes resound — and 

this 
The wind takes in its furious flight — though 

fain 
To hello it, as through some world-renowned 
Metropolis exhortingly it howls : 
"The all-devouring element — assured 
To bend hard gold, and stubborn adamant, 
If leisure be its stipulation — fire, 
Of chaos old one dire and beauteous offspring, 
Irradiates — infects — contagion — bent, 
Ignites an aliment, which is not hot — 
Oh, fire, once urged by breath-supporting gas, 
Would eat the world from crust to crust — if 

one 
Continuous mass combustible it were ! 
'A mystery resides within that flame 
"Whom mortal eyes had worshiped — worship 

yet — 
"Believing there the God doth hold abode — 
''A mystery ! this leaf directs me thither — 
"Whose flaming portals must be passed — 
"Even as in olden days of legend, Knights 
"Their valor proved, by rushing through wroth 

flames. 



188 Lost Love 



a 



Within — more powerful than man is fire — 
Disintegrating rocks — its crepitations 
"Sound as some blasting tunnel's walls — it eats 
"The very air, and mingled, conflagration's 

peak 
"Doth rise, derisive of man's vain attempts 
"To choke its sway — or end its ire. What 

recks 
"It for its sister — element — their sizzling war 
"Promotes its fury — out of steam it towers — 
"A smoke — to flame aloft victorious ! 
"In ashes only dies the flame — its food 
"Devoured — and, as the bloodless man lies 

cold — 
"So is its life no more — but as in man 
"His principle from nature coming — so fire 
"Eternal is in air — when fed — it flames !" 
(O so the seed of man, by woman fed — 
(Grows, till emerging from the womb, the 

stores 
(Of Nature's wealth keep vitalizing the new 

child 
(Till passing through life's stages, it does die ! 
(Or, as a cankered bloom, by sickness touched 
(Fades early.) While the flame hath life, its 

heat 
Doth travel through the nearest space of air — 
Alighting on atomic objects, and they glow. 
O, so the leaf enveloped by the heat, 
Till it was one with it, burned to its embers. 



Lost Love 189 

Man is a burning flame — whose heart is hearth, 
Whose will propels its brightness by apt fuel — 
Health, joy, and hope. O, as the fire's heat 
So man within him hath diffusing warmth — 
Which, when it finds congenial fellow, spreads 
O'er him, till, long immersed, upsprings man's 

friendship. 
When on the chilly night's of wrath December 
And icy seas moan, sob, and wail — my cot 
Was like a blast that blew o'er rivers cold 
Snowed over with light frost — and like a 

nymph 
Shivering on the margin of the cold wood-pool 
Aft' having rippled it with her assaying foot — 
So undecided my ownself — but after tears 
Entoned more than old anthem's — slowly crept 
My vital heat from forth of me — and warmed 
What erst seemed as congealed ocean-spray. 
Fair woman hath a tepid body — 
Superior to man's colder heart — commingling 
With ours, her warmth doth enter into us — 
And though we were in temperate climes, so 

is the heat 
Which she emits — O glorious triumph's wreath 
Of the Creator ! So is man a fire 
Possessed of properties as like the flame — 
Eternal fire — eternal man — one cosmic — 
One is condensed into earth — fitting shape — 
Both have a birth from th' universe's scheme — 
Inscrutable !" Now wane the gales — the drops 



190 Lost Love 

A down the eaves ring as the far-off voice 
That winds through woodland-gulch to some 

lone glade — 
A silence, as soft bubbling water flows 
Upon a silvery sheet of night-born ice — 
Spreads over the chilled air — above the waves, 
That I see crisping from the window-pane — 
The majesty of night in robes of gore, doth 

mount 
Her wind-blown chariot — wheeling silently! 
Back to the ingle — there the leaf yet lies — 
A black and shrivelled spot upon the stone. — 
O, ashes are the object's ruins — bones. 
Vestiges of our life — and fire leaves 
A memory that it devoured all, 
But no more — life hath tasted much — it lets 
Its far successors see that osseous frame 
Is testimony, that an individual breath 
Has heaved the living breast — that bones pro- 
claim 
The truth of definite souls in definite forms — 
The skeleton is monument as ashes show 
That fire hath ended ! 

Love, O, even thou ! 
Thou hast diffused thy soul-love over me — 
Till in its potency my mind grew errant — 
Lost with its superwealth of charm ! O, Love, 
It hath consumed me — till its over-fire 
Longed to re-glow within thy heart — alas ! — 
It spreads upon estrangement — as one flame 



Lost Love 191 

'that beats against a frozen wall — it melts 
The frost — but lo ! — its wild affection wrought 
Its death — the drops drenched all — and would 

not let 
It cheer itself ! "As one wrapt long in woe, 
I lean against the pane — and listen — listen 
How Nature's airs die, how the far seas flow. — 
O glorious shines the cold lemon-moon — bright 

stars 
Sparkle free — and near the lone rocks glisten, 

glisten — 
So pale, as even my sad memories. — 
O y influx of night's thoughts — O, streaming 

forth 
Of molten cries, commingled with her awe, 
From surexcited brain ! And echoes touch 
The faintly jingling glass — and scar my heart, 
And night's supremest quiet is like death 
Alone in freshly-wreathed vault — but far — 
O, far above, the dapper twinkle of those orbs, 
That ever glow from one another's fire, 
In jocund dance sing Life's unending Light — 
And to them turns my thought. — O stars, that 

sweep 
The hems of the inane, by motion's pressure 
Burn steadfastly, from one another's blaze 
Forever kindled — sustained — renewed ! O, 

stars, 
Revolving orbs — and ye whose liberty 
Rolls over spans immeasurable to our brain — - 



19 2 Lost Love 

And thou, beyond them all — the heaven's' 

Allah ! 
O, sun ! from ye I learn that flint is one 
With ye — that man shares with ye flame and 

motion — 
That fire is cosmos— that a daedal life 
From ye hath been — unfathomably turned to 

shapes — 
To growth— to life— to thought! That fire 

was first ! 
From which, infinitesimally wrought, 
A just proportion constituted ore — 
And one the majestic thunderer of the desert — 
From which, inscrutably mixed, its mingled 

parts 
Promoted passion — others a searching eye — 
The most ethereal blazed high inspiration! 
That when the land-seas bear the huge Bethe- 

moth 
Ye are the subtle showing o' the Almighty 
In his vast Power — to chain ye till His Plan 
Wills that ye glow and grow ! Oh, as our God 
Hath wondrously known to turn a wild fire- 
star. 
O mighty sphere of flame and wrath — an orb 
Whose ungovernable rolling as the thunder 

sounds — 
Into a fair glow-diamond, to our eyes 
So many thousand miles away — so may 
He let my soul resolve my wandering thoughts 



Lost Love 193 

Into immortal words — twinkling in skies 
As even stars ! — seen by my fellow-minds. 
The Universe contains all Germs of Fire 
Heat is in everything, is everywhere ! 
Mite-man is washed in fire-sustaining air — 
He burns as even the branch on godly pyre! 
All on this earth, through the inane — is 

Heat — 
O, silence tingles — flames beget thought — all is 

change — 
O, subtle Spirit! out of Heat 
The far inane with all on earth — once to have 

shaped — 
0, change and motion so the fires range — 
Invisibly is all with latent fire draped! 

She dons her silver chain, on dais throned 
Earth's satellite irradiates her warmth — 
Which we perceive as beauteous silver-glow 
Withon our eye. Heaven's huge expanse doth 

live — 
And breathes, and motions, and her songs are 

lofty 
As those each glory-ascending soul doth 

chaunt. 
It is the weary under-song that calleth me — 
The sadness which the water's heat 
Sets to a melody — it is that gale 
From forth the troubled fluid makes me dream 
That storm and showers with the howling wind 



194 Lost Love 

And sighing trees, are echoed in that voice — 
(One way that heat propels its energy!) 
The glowing embers, like ripe crabs whose 

smiles 
Are tinctured with the summer's greatest 

glow — 
Yawn as in final agony. . . . Those grey 
And shrivelled masses by the half-red coals — 
Few sparks, like owl-eyes in cold, dark nights, 
One leer, a demon's sneer-farewell — upon 
The hearth-stone wavers the sad moon's pale 

smile — 
With mystery, and with thought I am alone ! 
When fire fades — our dreams are left to us — 
Undreaming fools! (For in weird deepest 

dreams 
Sublimest truths are born !) My ears resound 
The mutt'ring silence — ay — the monotone — 
Yet modulate — of earth's utter quietude. 
O, Love — that fire served someone — it died 
Aft' having done its part; when with that 

wonder 
O, Nature's aweful wonder — and well it be 
That so we fare — this feverish body mingles. 
O, even as those flames that are no more — 
My soul is calm : — I've done — my day is up ! 

INTERLUDE. 

'Twas two long days ago I strayed 
Where often Cupids must have played 



Lost Love 195 

In silvery hours of Apollo's reign — 

O, Greece, what charming thoughts have lain 

Withon thy fancy's sumptuous lawn: 

To love the night — revere the dawn ! 

Adore each work of Nature — own 

That Zeus is the God alone! 

And that each mite — each passion bears 

A life — a soul ! — I strayed by stairs 

That Nature cut into the crag — 

By cliffs — by ocean-sliding sag — 

By shining slabs, that set a table 

For Asa-folk — so croons the fable — 

By pillared rocks — and fluted walls 

Where never sun's great shining falls — 

By precipices, listening solemn 

To the low surge — by lichened column 

Where-'round birds multitudinous 

Their nests build, O so hazardous— 

By threading paths of rock, where-'round 

The thundering billows muffled sound — 

Till to the bright green lea I came 

That seemed as though from sprayy game 

The Sylphids just had left it — cool 

Invigorant, as woodland pool. 

Here were the lapping waves to me 

As thoughts come from eternity — 

Here was the murmuring surf like breeze 

Sweet whisp'ring runes to summer-bees — 

Here was the stretch of ocean's realm 

As when grand truths us overwhelm ! 



196 Lost Love 

There swelled a wave — and on its spray 

A delicate Syren-woman lay — 

With questioning mien — and sad, jsad eye, 

With fine, soft hand — and bosom high 

Upon a fairest waist; and scale 

On scale made up her fishy tail 

That sparkled gem-like in the sun. — 

She left the spreading wave — and on 

The moist and iridescent sand — 

Half glided — half with her small hand 

Oared on to where I sat in thought — 

Where Nature to me soothings brought. 

With unfamiliar sigh her lips 

Gave utterance — above her hips 

I saw the beatings of a heart — 

Which must have been like mine in part — 

For at "What are you, lonely one !" 

My body's fibres were unspun. 

A chill did fright me — was it true 

A syren-woman parlance knew ! 

"What are you !" 

O, those sad, sad eyes- 
Beseeching for compassionate replies — 
That luring bosom, and those tresses — 
With drops, like dew in wildernesses 
Where ferns and blooms abide — those scales, 
In sheldy hues — that form whose trails 
Upon the sand grooves serpent-wakes — 
On either side an imprint takes 
The shape of human hand — how say 



Lost Love 197 

To her that dreamers sing a lay 

Upon the strand — that warbles sing 

Of sea, and wind's swift marvelling ! 

But she did touch my hand, which was 

Yet oozey from the deep sea's grass — 

She showed her coral-teeth, as white 

As rarest coral-blooms — and bright 

Her features grew — but sad her eye — 

Within a latent mystery 

Was mourning — O, she sylabelled 

As though those strange sounds had been 

spelled 
Before that wave sprayed her to me — 
"What are you!'' and a potency 
Held me — we were become as friends. 
"A poet," said I, "But who sends 
"You to me — half a fish, half human 
"A scaly tail — a sweet-shaped woman !" 
And there rose such marvel lay 
As magic lute at elfin-play — 
When evening comes — it trembled afar 
Within the surf — where dolphins are. 
It hovered o'er spume like summer-air. 
Enshrouds with gauze the wild-fields fair; 
She sylabelled in sweet response : 
"O, poet — know you what was once ! 
"I loved then ; we held sway in ocean — 
"We thought as you — the sea's commotion 
"We shared — and, buoyant, sported 
"Within the brine. O, none distorted 



198 Lost Love 

"Our shape; no laws made us forget 
"That we were Nature's — no regret 
"Grew mournful eyes — no one had willed 
'That his sea-closets be rich filled 
"With coral — or pearl — O, queen of all 
"The sea's rare jewelry — no thrall 
"To pride his own dominion held 
"Aloof of others — no one quelled 
"Our joy when on the whales we rode — 
"Or sheldey flower-polyps strowed 
"Upon some festive beryl-floor. 
"O, no — our thoughts were sweet — the store 
"Of ocean's wealth — the strands were dear 
"To us — but one strange thought brought tear 
"Upon thick tear — O, why a tail 
"As rudder? — why sweet lips to wail 
"When on the sand we mused? — O, why 
"The beauteous shoulder? — why the eye 
"That flashed our sad thought to the gale ? 
"Why could we play in airless vale 
"Deep down in sea's abysm ? — why flute 
"By looming cliff — or with horn-lute 
"Entrance thy fellows — whom we feared — 
"For they could run — we saw they reared 
"Sweet babes, that long the beach would play. 
"But never came to where we stay." 
No longer could I let her speak — 
"How do you know our ways — that weak 
"We have become — though strong in mind — 
"Sordid our heart — our reason blind!" 



Lost Love 199 

Her sad, sad eyes, as though an age 
Of fruitful knowledge — of weal and rage: — 
Had made them so — looked up at me : 
"Way by the Yellow Seas I used to be, 
"And there an aged man, like you — 
"He dreamed — to him I went — then knew 
"I all !" Then touched that woman sweet 
My hand — "O, tell me what you meet 
"With here, upon the lonely strand — 
"Away from house, and fatherland !" 

Those accents, doleful, as the cry 
Of homeward culver, made me sigh. — 
They were moist with sadness — fraught 
With echoes of such long, long thought ! 
I could not answer — tears rolled down — 
I saw a mist o'er sea and heaven thrown ; 
But in my ears strange sayings swelled — 
The Syren 'twas that sylabelled : 

"O, Pride invaded primeval hearts — 
"So now the healthy joy departs. — 
"O, Poet— he told all to me.— 
"O, listen to my melody ! 
"You deem yourself superior men — 
"Because by grove, in home-like glen, 
"All is subjected to your sway. 
"You think we are not human — ay — 
"You never think the billows bear 
"A voluptuous pillow-bosom ; nor tear 



200 Lost Love 

''Apart our seaweed garment's trail 
"As on we ride, when sea-airs quail 
"In sprayey woe — nor that the brine 
"Does sleep a brow that seems divine — 
"Nor that we, Syrens, be. O, pride — 
"O, pride, born when the doe-buck's hide 
"Clothed swarthy shoulder, when the pearls, 
"The corals, jingled on neck of girls — 
"When all of Nature's beauties served 
"As ornaments to man ! You swerved 
"From Nature's path — your heritage 
"Was happiness in every age — 
"Live in the honey of the vales — 
"Respire fragrance in the pales 
"Of Nature's teaching — drink what there 
"Was poured out — no more — for nowhere 
"Between the two cold arcs, need more 
"Be known than gives a bounteous store 
"Of doing for life's dream — for lo ! — 
"All is but futile — all you know 
"Is gulped up, when you be, like us, 
"Cold vomited by tumultuous 
"Seas on the bare sand-beach, where lie 
"Crumbled bones of our ancestry. 
"A pastime all your sages know — 
"Our babe that sees the gates of Glow 
"Is like the white-locked sage, when he 
"Leaves to his fellows Vanity ! 
"O, Poet — by the star-fish houses 
"No vice breeds, never wild carouses 



((■ 



': 



Lost Love 201 

"Commit low crime — as Xature said 
ic So love we — joy and sport are led 
"By Syren-maidens — delicate 
"As Nautilus — we know no hate — 

With the wild froth we play — we muse 

Upon a cliff, above of whose 
"Fair-flowered head the glaucous waves 
"Roll, even as clouds, when heaven roves. 
"But Pride, that loathful canker vile, 

Ate all the petals of Love's rose — 

And your proud life is to beguile 
"Low pleasures without travail's throes/' 
She murmured, as the lipping wave 
Rustles along the coral-cave, 
To me that Love hath wandered away 
Since gold keeps now his sordid sway — 
That Love by station is debased 
And Love from life's sweet page erased — 
As the once sweet blooming bud 
Deformed by hail's wild cutting flood! 
O Pride !" . . But here I touched her hand 
As clammy as the sea-laved sand — 
And gazed into her human eyes — 
Yet soft with spray — with coral-dyes — 
Illumed to strange fair love fond orbs — 
And uttered : O Syren ! what absorbs 
Thy speech so true, so like a one 
Who dreams of Good and Love alone — 
Like our philosophers that aye 
Sore seek the most sublime life way 



202 Lost Love 

That leads to betterment and God — 

Though they are scorned on earth's fair sod ! 

Thou knowest all that makes man blind — 

And oft so thoughtless as the wind — 

And bestial, savage — far from human — 

Degrading thus God's love-vowed woman ! 

Thou feelest what in poet's heart 

Must simmer, what doth wildly start 

When God's child sees the wrong and greed 

That this queer world's low mankind feed — 

O, thou dost know what crazes me 

That world had taken what should be 

My happiness, my manhood's powers — 

Berobbing me of orange-flowers — 

And letting all my energies die — 

I must weep and sigh and sigh." 

Then did that lovely woman-fish 

Let purl a tear down her rose-cheek : 

"O mortal — let thy sorrow's wish 

Be that you die together meek 

And loving so your soul be blessed 

When body's frets have gone to rest!" 

"But how curtail these torture-davs — 

Made sweet by singing sorrow-lays — 

But ever burdened with a moan — 

As sursurrus with ocean's groan — 

How let this heart of mine be filled 

With energies, ambitions high — 

When she Love's sacred cup had spilled 

Before me — thrown away Joy's die !" 



Lost Love 203 

Then rolled full many a drop adown 
Her rosed cheek : — tc O friend of love ! 
Keep in thee all that God had grown 
For thee to sing of so to prove 
That He is greater than the world — 
Though they revere not thy great heart, 
Though they may all thy love-songs thwart, 
Though they ignore thy divine lays, 
Though none proffer thee highest bays — 
Keep e'er thy song-sails fair unfurled 
And speed o'er skies to regions rare 
Where soul to spirit thrilleth there — 
Where, if thy love loves not on earth 
There she may feel Love's sweetest birth 
Unharassed by the clink of gold 
But charmed by lutes and Angel's fold 
Of luminous cov'ring — splendrous glow — 
That we shall all some near day know ! 
Sing, sing thy songs of woe and wail — 
Some day the world's praise shall prevail ! 
Then with a sad look she did part 
And left a hope-spark in my heart — 
And as a lithe snake through the grass 
Her tail a wake left in the sand — 
Then plunged in the surf — and all did pass — 
So sadly, sweetly — wild and bland — 
That long upon the rock I dreamed — 
And all she said to me had seemed 
A dream — yet it was true, oh ! true — 
So that I wept, and all the hue 



204 L o st L ov e 

Of heaven turned to misty blue 
As the soft azure on a shell — 
Then heard I the eve's curfew-knell — 
While late gulls with their wise, shrewd eyes 
Leered at me from the splashy sand — 
Then sailed they on with shrilly cries — 
And I strolled homeward 'long the strand — 
O, homeward strolled — with hope alone 
To kiss my hot brow to sweet rest — 
And confidence in God's high throne, 
Till He will show me to the Blesst. 

Paris, France (1887). 



A SONG. 



I feel so like a lonely cloud, 
Way far in the mountains hoar : 

With all the splendor of the sun 

Aplaying through its delicate mould- 
But torn by the dark pines ! 

I feel so like the desolate shore, 
Where never a foot trod on — 

Nor played with the crystal shroud 
That trembles o'er a floor of gold, 
When no orb heaves nor shines. 



Lost Love 205 

I feel so like the plaintive wave, 

That hath all the ocean's splendor there — 
All the rosed sky to dream in, when 'tis eve — • 

But hath no cliff to sound its song — 
Nor hath a pearl to stay its fleet-fleet surge. 

I feel so like the bird forlorn, so fair 

In groves of orient-blooms and mild agave. 
Oh ! like the bird that flits from tree, to grieve 
Upon the blossomy ground — there wail, and 
long 
For one of fairer feather — as song a dirge ! 

I feel as though I would to lay me down 

Upon a soft moss-bier — and there to die. 
Oh ! breathe no more — and let the sweet moss 
be 
A grave, so calm, so cool, so green ; 

To lie there ever — lost in woe and pain ! 

I feel as though 'twere sweet to fly 

Away from all the fretting flutter of the 
town; 
And lose my way in some deep wood-countrie. 
Oh ! sleep with beasts — when thunders loud 
Deluge the air — and I would slowly wane ! 

I feel the weight of loneliness upon my soul — 
I would to be soon dreaming in earth's prom- 
ised goal. 

(December, 1885.) 



2o6 Lost Love 



DOES LOVE EXIST? 



'Twere better I were dead — 
'Twere best to be with Thee, 
All singing songs of rapturous glee — - 
Than feel as though I were a passing wind 
Here on this globe — where I no echo find 

To my deep melodies ! 
Than treated be as is a gorgeous sunset's fire 

By those, in whom all piety fled — 
And reverence for Thy wonders and thy mar- 
vels — 
O, God, 'twere better far 
To sing upon a lonely, frozen star — 
That tune my lyre for a world so dumb and 
dull— 
A world that court but greed's desire — 
And shirk all that is simple, and so beautiful 

On Thy earth's wonder-crust — 
And play at games with Thy great laws and 
beauties — 

O, God, 'twere best to be 
A-singing in Eternity — 
For here no soul lists more to prophesies — 
Nor owns Thy marvel-law of dust to dust I 



Lost Love 207 



A SONG. 



I am dead — yet living — 
I am giving — 
Yet led to take— 
I am dead — yet singing — 
I am bringing 
Such songs that wake 
The morning-flower — 
To thee ! 

Yet prone to ask 
For lips that sing 

More beauteous far 
Than trillering 

At daybreak's hour ! 

I am dead — yet breathing — 

I am wreathing 
My lyre with bunches 

Of milk-white roses 
That bloom like thee 

At Kandahar ! 
To scent my songs ! 

Yet wishing posies — 

And love's pure punches 
To fall and flow 

From thy pure hands 
And where thy lucid throat 

May sing such deftest notes — 



208 Lost Love 

Like bird in sand, 

Where maidens dance — 
Their mystic trance — 
To harping throngs. 
I am dead — yet living — 
I am giving 
Sweet life to melodies — 
I hope to sing 
To thee ! 

Yet all desirous of 
Your deepest love! 
I am dead — yet singing — 
I am bringing 
Sweet tones to extasies 
Like songs of Spring 
To thee— 

Yet prone to take 
From thy pure lips 
A kiss — 
And purer dips 

Into many a lover's bliss ! 
One day in thy pure arms 
And thy sweet charms 
To wake ! 

(December g, 1885.) 



Lost Love 209 

SONG. 

O fondest flower, fade not in the flare 

Of crystal glasses, nor of golden chambers— 
O, keep thy heart still fresh— as in the air 
Where by the brookside the rose lonely 
clambers — 
O, fade not, flower — 

For thou art there for my blooming — 
O, wither not, flower — 

For thou dost live for my own blooming — 
O, by the jewel, by the glitter of the glassy 

glare — and by the timid show — 
O, flower, keep thee pure and rosy — keep thy 
heart as shines the morning's glow ! 

O, fondest flower, fade not in the flare 

Of world's small brilliant halls and lifeless 
gardens — 
O, leave thy heart to thee— as though thou 
dreamest there 
In beauteous bosk — with elfin laughters trill- 
ing through — 

And freshened by a diamond-brightening 
dew — 
O, by the caskets, by the fretful world— and by 

those vices, seeming none — 
O, flower, let a bluet blow at times— and think 
those petty hours gone ! ! 

(December 9, 1885.) 



2io Lost Love 



MOCKERY. 



Ho-ho-ho ! 
I loved a mortal maid who loved not me — 

Ho-ho-ho — 
And still the song of birds persists to be 

Ho-ho-ho ! 

Ho-ho-ho ! 
These long, long years I loved a loveless maid. 

Ho-ho-ho — 
And yet the year doth yearn for amber-shade- — 

Ho-ho-ho ! 

Ho-ho-ho ! 
I loved a mortal maid that loved not me — 

Ho-ho-ho ! 
And still the stars sing out their songs so 
free — 

Ho-ho-ho ! 

Ho-ho-ho ! 
These six long years a maid had killed my 
heart — 

Ho-ho-ho — 
Yet purfled she of poesy each splendrous part. 

Ho-ho-ho ! 



Lost Love 211 



. LOVE'S LUTE LIES WITH A RIFT. 

Love's Lute lies with a rift — 

The strings, when touched, discordant 
sound — 
As wind when he doth lift 

The fallen rose-bud from the ground — 
Love's Lute is rifted — she hath rifted Love's 

gold Lute — 
Apollo's sweet Erato, on Love's lawn lies 
mute ! 

No more Pactolus' flow 

May echo from my Lute's so golden 
strings — 
She dealt the fatal blow 

And Love from her cold heart hath taken 
wings — 
Though all the myriad strings are strung for 

murmurous meed — 
A cleft hath gloomed all song, and though to 
song I plead ! 

Love's Lute lies with a rift — 

She rifted Love's gold Lute by her cold 
pierce — 
So may I no more lift 

To Love sweet songs or passion's pleadings 
fierce — 



2.12 Lost Love 

For she hath rifted it, and though the strings 

are there, 
The fissure breeds discordant tones harsh like 

despair ! 



The wooden Lute, with silver strings, 

As any man-made viol rings — 

'Tis not of all immortal worth — 

It is a plaything of the earth. — 

So had I sung with earthly thing — 

Lo ! — now I with a heavenly lyre sing — 

I build high songs from the immortal stars — 

Lo ! hoar Orion's tragic square 

Shall by my lyre, with those three golden bars ; 

To sing of man and universe and God — 

And myriad strings, invisible, yet fair, 

Shall vibrate songs of mystery and thought. 

Orion, looming in the brilliant night, 

Shall be my lyre, with golden strings. 

My spelled thoughts shall take their fiery wings 

To take to him their all-inspired flight. 

O, sounds so superhuman shall arise, 

That, hearing them, all men shall con the skies ; 

Thinking up there strange songs have birth, 

To lift all mortal brains from earth, 

Even up to those three immortal centre-stars, 

Which are for me my lyre's giant-bars. 

Oh ! such great lyre now shall be the fire 

That leads my thought to the mysterious God ! 



Lost Love 213 

Love's Lute I lay away, to lie alone — 
Perchance to hang around me on a day, 
When from her heart the ice will thaw away, 
And she may mend the rift — till then I'm gone : 
Away to hoar Orion's gorgeous giant square — 
Where, o'er his three belt-stars I'll draw three 

bars — 
Then touch them with my magic Spirit fair, 
Till from them universal sounds will spread 
To thrill the living earthly — please the God- 
blessed dead ! 
Till all of earth, at such new birth 
Within the starry night, will take delight 
To listen to those lays — and, wond'ring, gaze 
For many moons at hoar Orion's square — 
For from it swell, like super-worldly spell, 
Such songs that virbrate unknown lore — 
Great truths, to man untaught before — 
And mysteries so fair, sought in the midnight 

air. 
And when I'm fled — let it be said — 
One youth who sang of love — yet loved in 

vain — 
Had flung his fissured lute — and then to love 

was mute — 
But as he met with hoar Orion's set of stars 
He swore to string three golden immortal 
bars — 



214 Lost Love 

And touch them till they swell with universal 

strain — 
So all their sounds arouse posterity to keep 

their God-sent vows ! 

(January 16, 1891.) 



fl tttVXB 




2i6 Poems 



LONGING. 

At evenfall — when Autumn's dusk sets in 
I walked through wailing wolds — 

Alone I was — I saw young lovers walk — 
O, longing crept within my folds ! 

Am I alway alone — no love to fondle — 

No maid is there for me ! 
I see those lovers coo — and laugh, and chat — 

But I am destitute of glee ! 

The chill of eve at Autumn's death of day 

I love as though a maid — 
But how far more sublime — more true to man 

If maid to me her love had said ! 

,The faint rare glow of Autumn's crimson sky 

I love so to adore — 
But how far more enchanting 'tis to gaze 

At maid who loves me evermore ! 

Though Autumn's weirdness hath such power 
o'er me 

Though Autumn's wild-songs fly — 
I would I had a maid — tell her my woe — 

To muse with her — and love — and die ! 

(1883) 



Poems 217 



THE BELL-BUOY. 



Toll, toll, toll — 
The knell of thy soul of bronze and steel — 
And I would that my heart could feel 
The palpitations of that toll ! 

O, well for the weary mariner at night 

That thy toll is rolled o'er the roaring waves. 
A sound of monotone, that saves, that saves ; 

And warns, when the clouds are riven with 
light ! 

O, sad when the sailor seeks his grave 
Too nigh thy bell with the hollow toll — 
Then I would that his heaven-flown soul 

Could record the beats and throbs of the wave ! 

Toll, toll, toll- 
Through the chilled midnight air and breeze — 
And oh ! that thy hollow tone may men release 
From a grave, where the loud waves roll. 



218 P o e m s 



SONG— MELANCHOLY. 

Nightly roams a veiled maid 

Through the forest black and lone 
By the brookside dreams a stone 
Mossy, shadowed dark — 
Oh ! a pitch-dark mark — 
There the maid unties her braid — 
Loosened, fly her locks of gold — 
Tresses that their tale have told — 
Melancholv sits there — all alone — so cold! 

There she dreams upon the stone — 
Dreamy eyes shine through the veil — 
Looking at two hands so pale, 
Delicate — but worn — 
Seeming pallid-born — 
Night-wind blowing — she alone ! 
Melancholy heeds no storm, 
Dreamily bends her slender form, 
Kindred is she to the night-wind — to the 
storm ! 

Folded hands, and firmly pressed 
Pillow now her bosom gray — 
On them locks of gold do stray — 
Locks to a dreamy head — 
Friends when tears are shed. 
And she prays for heavenly rest, 



Poems 219 

Prays for morrow's speedy flight, 
Prays for speedy birth of night — 
Lo ! a light shines through the woods — a heav- 
enly light ! 

'Tis a light from Heaven's gate — 
Streaming to the maid forlorn, 
And she ceases now to mourn; 
Ceases praying there, 
Ceases dreaming there — 
For to her is given a mate — 

Light illumes the gloomy night — 
Lo ! it wanes — 'tis lost to sight ; 
Melancholy sits there — all alone and white ! 

Nightly roams a veiled maid — 

Through the forest dark and lone. 
Resting on a mossy stone — 
A stone so dark, so dark — 
Oh ! a pitch-dark mark ! 
Sitting, dreaming — like a shade 
O'er a castle's haunted wall; — 
Sitting till the light doth call- 
Sitting aft' the light hath dropped her 
sadd'ning pall ! 

(1883) 



220 P o e m s 

TO JOHN FIELD. 

(his nocturnos.) 

O weird-brained gazer on fair music's fields, 
How weirdly all thy tunes pour forth their 

strain. 
How full of woe, of wretchedness and pain 

All songs are strown. How strangely, quickly 
yields 
Thy hand to will— so dark — of thy great 

soul. 
Thy tones are apt to bring the mournful toll 

Of dismal, deathly realms to light again. 

But then thy other songs fall like a rain 

That softly tinkles o'er shady, verdant lanes. 

Invokes the spirits glum to tear away their 
chains 

And listen, spell-bound, to those cheery sounds ; 

And naught may aid to weigh thy heart-pressed 
moan. 

Nor aid to feel the ghost-wind thou hast blown. 

For thy weird-joyous tune the soul con- 
founds — 

Doth cast a heavy shower on the player's brow 

Sends him to wolds where no fay-castles glow, 

But where a harpy, in his wildness, bounds. 

Again thy tune conjures a hapful grove 

Where shepherds boon, many a maid do love ; 



Poems 221 



Play, dance — yet even there pain lurketh 
through 

For pain and woe always thy heart's voice 
drew ! 

Thy soul was gloomy then, O Field, so great ! 

Thy songs at night must be night's placid soul. 

Thy tunes will e'er with weird-souled dream- 
ers mate — 

Live on — though thou hadst found life's rest- 
ful £oal ! 



. LONELINESS. 

Oft 1 thought in the dreary night 
Lit by beams of the moon's dim light — 
Oft I mused in the hour when day 
Sings in deep and weird tune her lay. 

Oft alone I in soft delight 
Gazed aghast at the stars so bright. 
Lone was I, and in thought I lay 
Ton the shore of the brook so gray. 

Breeze, who kissed my moist cheek in fright 
Sang his melody — took his flight — 
Banetui thought he mine eye's wild ray — 
Flashing out like the sorcerer's lay. 



222 P o c m s 

Gentle beams of the moon's pale light — 
Pierced the pearls of my weeping sight — 
Now I see all the mabs at play — 
Ah ! the tears of my woe are gray ! 

Tears are flowing with fleeting night — 
Tears are glist'ning in moon's pale light — 
Would that I could but hear her lay, 
Charmed by her, and her loving sway ! 

Lone I am, in the star's chilled light — 
Gazing dimly thro' the dark, drear night- 
Xever the sound of her soft, sweet lay, 
Kisses tears that will fade at day ! 



A MOMENTARY THOUGHT. 



How sad it is to see the even-sky 

In all its glory, fairy-splendor die — 

And see the gray and purple clouds be born — 

As they by chilled windy grasp are torn ! 

Then all the soft and weird imaginings — 
Then all the sacred, lowly wonderings — 
The sunset's glow, and blending fire create 
The gold and crimson tints on heaven's gate — 



P o c m s 223 

As they fly o'er the blooming windling's bed 
On soul a rain of wondrous piety shed, 
Fade with the death of sun's aspiring rays, 
Our soul doth mourn the death of glowing lays. 

Our soul sheds tears so cold, so ghastly dim 
In thought of mortal's mournful even-hymn — 
So like the kiss of gray swift wind to cloud- — 
So like the flutt'ring tints on heaven's shroud ! 
(Sunday, Feb. 18, 1883.) 



A THOUGHT. 

(As below, so it was written the first time.) 

As slowly the huddling flock of sheep go by — 
As mournfully the cowlet's evening-sigh 
Flows, ruffled some, through the calm and 

chilled air — 
As barking fleet hound with watchful eye his 

care 
Upon the now homeward-wending flock be- 
stows — 
As shepherd like king his might and power 

shows 
As faintly all in distance, in even's mist dies — 
As but the reminiscence in memory revolving 
flies. 



224 Poems 

So stormy long days of man's existence flee, 
So grieves and unconsciously sighs out he 
When endeth the joyous rapture at his task — 
So fleeting deep thoughts around him hov'ring 

bask — 
To warn him of trivial low acts in life. 
So genius shines, like sun, through clouds of 

• strife ! 
So even-gray knocks so ghastly at his cot 
And night lulls to sleep him whom she once 
begot ! 

Ithaca, N. Y. 

RAYS OF MOONLIGHT. 



Rays of moonlight, vaguely rippling 
Through the landscape slumb'ring gently — 
Shedding light on branchlets trickling, 
Full of dew-drops blending silv'ry. 
Goblins wild and goblins mystic 
Dart now there, and now they vanish 
Through ethereal clouds of sombre web-mist ! 
Dancing, revel'ing, they replenish 
Night with magic all-fantastic, 
Hushed now song of bird so joyful — 
Hushed now buzz of insect's whisp'ring 
Hushed now babbling stream so playful — 
Hushed now all save Nature's glitt'ring, 



P o c m s . 225 

Calmly floating through the incensed night- 
mist. 
Rays of moon-light, slowly fading 
Kissing softly shiv'ring morn-wind, 
Chilled by eastern blush, awak'ning 

Mourned ye are by goblin's dark kind ; 
Mourned by sleeping birds on tree-tops 
Mourned by owl a-hooting ghastly — 
Perching now on branch, and now a-dreaming! 
Glow of white now blends ye sadly — 
Charm has robbed all life of dew-drops — 
Lo ! majestic bard of morning 
Waves his hands now o'er the harp-chords, 
Guided by a look aspiring, 
Melodies he sings of night-hordes, 
Charmed by rays of moonlight, then a-stream- 
ing! 

Ithaca, X. Y. (Feb. 12, 1883). 

EVENING. 

(January 28, 1883.) 

Moaning drear, the wind does blow 
Through the dark and shivering trees. 

Fairy-like the sky does glow 

As the sun now eastward speeds. 



226 Poems 

Still some tints of radiant fire 
Kiss the cloudlets, flying high. 

Now the magic's cade desire 
Yields to voice of evening-sigh ! 

Clouds and sky, now tinged with gray 

Baleful cast a look below : 
Where, in joy, fair Nature's prey 

Shelter seek from growing foe. 

Man now meditates alone — 

While the fumes of essence grow — 

While the seeds of night are sown — 
While the stars begin to glow ! 

Evening-bells pour forth their tale : 

Loud and soft; now clear, now faint- 
Flow now through some misty dale — 
Chime now loud without restraint. 



Nature sleeps like saintly queen ! 

Winds so gentle and so drear 
Fan her, lull her through the e'en, 

Whisp'ring soft to night so weir' ! 



Poems 227 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

AT COLLEGE, ITHACA, N. Y. 

Twice I thee to-day beheld ; 

Longing thee, at dance, to take. 
Even at last my hope upheld 

Till thine eye thy thoughts bespake. 
Heart ! to thee I entrust my lot — 
Pray, forsake — forsake me not ! 

Fair, in radiant glow, she stood : 

Queen of all, most innocent — 
Still no dance ! — My heart did droop. 

Hope and joy forever bent! 
Why so strange to me to-night? 
Whv not cheer and laughter bright ? 

(1883) 



228 Poems 

ELEGY 
ON A SEEMINGLY LOST FRIENDSHIP. 

Inscribed to J. B. B. 

Aid me, soft-warbled flute of plaintive tone — 
Aid me with thy sweet songs so smoothly 

borne, 
As faded lilies on the stream's calm bosom — 
Aid me to sing to life those hours 
When he and I, who now seem so estranged, 
Had o'er Cayuga's delly hillsides ranged — 
And loved together all their fragrant flowers, 
The pink arbutus-blossom — 
And sat by brooks — and watched the birds 

alone, 
Or dreamed together of life's future morn. 

Ay, sound in mellow flowings music sweet — 
Such he had played on his own mellow flute : 
Oh ! music, thrilled with all the soul of nature ; 
So he awake from his long sleep — 
So friendship burst again as once it burst : 
When we together wandered through the 

hurst — 
Those guileless days of youth which none can 

keep! 



Poems 229 

Yet all recall each feature ! 

Those days, when world's sad tales were still 

all mute, 
We thought that joys and smiles made life 

complete ! 

Breathe softly ! for I will not sound a blare, 
To startle his sore heart that needs all ruth ; 
But such low tunes he loved to play at even 
Must from thy wreathed flute well up ; 
With them all memories of yore must rise, 
As pearly clouds when slow the sun's glow 

dies. 
Brimful, like sparkling wine in myrrhine cup, 
The past must fill thought's heaven — 
So all these songs may thrill his ambient air — 
To show to him again those dreams of youth. 

Play thou so sweetly of that friendship long 
That held us bound through many years of 

smiles 
And frets ; — till one strange happening divided 
His love for me — though I am his ! 

Aid me, thou flute nursed by my sorrowings — 

To coax a lay of music marvellings 

Such dedicate to olden sacrifice — 

Or sad that once abided 

By. Dublin's wolds, when Field fled world's sad 

guiles. 
So all his heart be soothed by thy fair song ! 



230 Poems 

'Twas music wove the chain that linked us each 
To each, almost like virgin's thought to love — 
He came to me at dusk, while I was playing 
Sad Schumann's "Sorrow Without End" — 
He grew enthused, and while the western glare 
Slowly waned to a livid, dreary stare — 
His heart was fain to call me his own friend — 
Then longer was his staying — 
On his flute he played such lays as on a beach 
A scald's of old, that heart deep all the rocks 
would move ! 

Oh ! tender be thy tone, dear flute of mine ! 

From that fair evening when he knew my soul 

We always walked away, communed together, 

And to his love for music, clung 

Sweet love for poesy — sweet wreathed dreams, 

We were like lass to lad, by bowery streams — 

And to the hills we oft had sung 

In madcap, wine-spelled weather — 

For he, like I, loved the poet's life and goal — 

Unlike most minds, we dreamed of life divine ! 

Rehearse, dear flute, the doings of those days ! 

Recall them, as sad Bayaderes ago 

Would sing to villagers fair deeds of olden ! 

Come, let my lips soft press on thee: 

So sweetest tones resound like purls from 

brook 
Heard, when with love you muse, from mossed 

nook — 



Poems 231 

For with thy subtle magic thou must free be 

Like sun, that sheds soft golden 

Pure light on foam-clouds, when fair Vesper 

prays— 
And free his gloom of heart aft' all his lover's 

woe ! 

Oh ! sing to him what time the swallows wing 
The balmy air of even — he would come 
With fiddle, flute — to play with me dear pieces, 
Rare Schubert's songs or sad or sweet — 
Most dear was "Erlafsee" oh ! magic song — 
Sweetest of melodies — eloquent tongue 
Of sadness and of joys that die so fleet: — 
Clouds, borne by mountain-breezes, 
Reflected in bluest lake, a-bloom 
With drifting boat, and lovers' murmuring ! 

When studies found their close in Autumn's 

glow — 
When harvesters returned to their day's task — 
We both — with flute, and paper — left for walk- 
ing: 
Through the quiet village streets and lanes — 
Across the culvert — o'er the fields — by road 
That wound along the hills rolling and broad — 
To Devil's Gorge — which he, with mellow 

strains, 
And I wish Muse-fond-talking 
Made lively more ; there would he sweetly 
blow 



232 Poems 

And blare — while in the sun bright birds would 
bask. 

We loved our favored nooks along that 

gorge- 
Where wild woods clomb to straggly heights 

— and rocks 
Lay cumbent — or protruded, for a laughter 
Of the brook's crystal babbling flow — 
We plucked the hidden, pink arbutus fair — 
Anemones — winter-berries — maiden-hair — 
Knew where the purple and whitest violets 

grow — 
Near to the bubbly water — 
Near bluets — myosotis— and quaint spurge — 
Far from the stagnant-water's baneful docks. 

And there it was, one afternoon in June, 
With his three Sunday-pupils we sat down — 
Then they would casual speech exchange, while 

I would 
Write humble tributes to the scene — 
Reciting it, they could not understand 
The deeper meaning back of words so bland — 
That sang of brook and haunts and sylvan 

sheen 
And praised the leafy dry-wood. 
So he recall it — flute ! — breathe it in tune : 



P o e m s 233 



SONG. 



(Written in the woods.) 

Craggy woodland! 

Embowering 
Deep gorges, and meads — 
Narrow brooklet ! 
That leads 
The bubbling babe-pools that sing 
Wearily, solemnly — 
Drearily, luridly — 
Their Manes-like chaunts — 
Be ye my haunts ! 
Leafy woodland! 
Beshadowing 
Sweet glades and closes — 
Fairy wood-breeze ! 
That poses 
O'er flitting leaves that ring 
Joyously, quietly — 
Waveringly, piously — 
Through the forest they roam--- 
Be ye my home ! 
For on it rests a hidden leaf-wrought crown! 

At other times, returning down the hills — 
Passing a house, we saw its jewel there — 
Rare slender swelte and perfect formed maiden 
Tending to eve-respiring kine, 
Lowing, with wet black noses turned skyward, 



234 P o c m s 

Dripping — reminiscent of late passed ford — 
With her we spent dear minutes youth-divine. 
She with rare beauty laden 
Abloom — matchless — a dell-flower grown by 

rills- 
Virgin — dew-fresh — a prize passing compare! 

Aid me fond flute — (my love returned art 
thou)— 

Aid me to sing to life our friendship true 
That now seems like once glorious grounds, 

deserted — 
Sing to him all we loved those days : 
The silvern rule we heard at foot of falls, 
Where columbines climb rocks — and oriole- 
calls 
Re-echoed through sweet Cascadilla's ways. 
Those silent noons that flirted 
With sun-beams — where the smilax lonely 

grew — 
When we together breathed a poet's vow ! 

Recall to him those nights mysterious, when 
We, flushed from oversweets of song and flute, 
Rushed out into the moonlit night, to linger 
Awhile before a grove whose gloom 
Wrought phantoms — but whose dewy verge 

showed fairy 
And fairy hovering in the moon-beams chary — 
Then would we dream of love, and mankind's 

doom! 



P o e m s 235 

With night-enchanted finger 
Show to him trains of elves dance to the glen, 
Then skyward — where full glorious stars 
would shoot ! 

Rise sweetly with thy song, flute ! — so that he 
May praise his youthful hours when we would 

meet — 
What time the town twinkles with a thousand 

star-lights — 
Within my room to read aloud 
Great Milton's master-tragedy — and know 
Ourselves young actors pledged to Clio's glow, 
Then improvise grim scenes, till we grew 

proud — 
Till the town's near and far-lights 
Slowly withdrew — oh ! that was empery : 
To act our thoughts — real — tragic — impulse 

fleet! 

He will grow plaintive when he hears thy 

notes, 
For in them quiver balmy woodsy lays — 
Of fragrant woods that still those glens are 

shading — 
Those hillsides, primrose-draped — and cool — 
Those lonely holts, in whose mossed hollows 

dwell 
The horded orchids — where the bird-songs 

swell — 



236 Poems 

And through their musing sings the silvery 

pool — 
The glorious air pervading — 
They will flash up to him those soft-toned 

throats 
That sang when meandered we on Nature's 

ways ! 

Xow let a shrilly note obtrude thy dream — 
It is the day in March when in the vale 
We strolled — shy leaves smiled on the trac- 
ings— 
Spring's tune was carolled in the air — 
When like a flash so sudden raged a wind — 
And whirling snow, thick, so to make us blind, 
Slapped round us, settled swiftly everywhere — 
To stifle surprised feelings — 
When, as it came, so sudden ceased the gale 
And snow ; — Spring smiled — radiant with 
beam and beam ! 

Then sweet-recall the hours we whiled away 
In Six-Mile-Creek — by south-loved hills en- 
girt; 
In pine-tree darkened gorges, hear the babble 
Of the soft-travelling, murmuring brook. 
And sun ourselves, net-maples bowering 
Our bodies, ease-outstretched — while linnets 

sang. 
Then wander on, exploring cave and nook — 
And halting; — sweet to dabble 



P o e m s 237 

In the cool deeper pools — ere close of day. — 
And homeward dream — while with us eve 
would flirt ! 

Aid me, sweet flute — to soothe his heart all 
sore, 

For he hath met with bale in love's short 
dream — 

Like unto me he loved — but some strange 
trouble 

Had cleft their smooth engagement-ring. 

And now, these two woe-years he wanders 
thought-sad— 

Like I, these eight long years — half worn, 
half mad — 

He fails to think of me to play, to sing. 

Oh ! for a fragrant bubble 

Of some strange juice with charms like Spring- 
fresh core — 

To wet his heart so friendship green and beam ! 

Aid me, with mellow tones, to melt his heart — 

That these two years was like a deep-cave- 
bloom. 

I would to know what caused their separa- 
tion — 

And love to hear it from his lips. 

Mysterious the workings o' woman's soul — 

Women seem flowers (who are the bee's sweet 
goal), 

That wait till any bee their honey sips ! 

'Tis man's strange destination 



238 Poems 

To love ; yet know not how she makes his 

doom — 
Rare boon to win her love by true love's dart ! 
So aid me, flute — to bring to bloom again 
This long-forsaken friendship, once aglow ! 

'Twas winter in his heart — yet mine was ver- 
nal. 

O might the snow-drops of this Spring 

Soon break the crusted snow — so he regale 

With me, who is like roses in June's vale ! 

So we together once again might sing — 

Exchanging thoughts eternal ; 

Rejoicing in those dreams when youth did 
glow, 

Like any tipsy bloom aft' June's soft rain ! 

And if thy tones had sweet persuasion given — 
If from his missives I may learn his heart — 
And I may feel with friendship it doth rap- 
ture — 
Then flute, my love ! a wreath for thee : 
Whose fragrance, like that of mysterious flow- 
ers, 
Lasting forever, quick will rain soft showers 
Of magic, thrilled by each youthful memory. 
Then will he all recapture — 
Till on the meshes of those days new joy im- 
part 
A broidery rare of friendship, blue as heaven ! 

(February 21, 1892.) 



Poems 239 



WRONG. 

Written in J. B. K.'s "At the Gate of Dreams! 7 

(J. B. K. writes that Pan is dead.) 

Pan ne'er will see his pompous funeral-day ; 

For he is increate in all natural things. 

He lives forever as sweet principle, and sings 
His tune along the brook-voiced woodland- 
ways. 
He tends the sheep on the sorrel-tinged hill 

They nibble, while he flutes his madrigal. 

For Pan is the rapt pulse that thrilleth all 
Of Nature ; and that pulse will ne'er be still. 

So brother-poet, listen longer ; hark ! 

Though Mammon set his rule in mankind's 

heart, 
Sweet Pan from higher man's soul can not 

part. 
List ! while I hear the pellucid brook — and 

mark 
The turn, where Rhododendrons bloom — I see 
The glow of Pan's sweet immortality ! 



240 Poems 



ACROSS THE STREET. 

(I was reading in 'Poems' when I saw her at the window.) 

Thou beauty-baby, with soft bodice, blue 
As gentian-petals, that by Lugano grew 

On rugged hills. 
Thou hast no girly outlines, nor the shape 
Of women — sweet between, like August-grape 

By Pan-sung rills. 
As at the evening — is it day or night. 
As on the beach, the wavelets are yet bright — 

But the sand calls out : 
"Stop ! here the sea ends — here the land begins. 
So art thou — unknown girl, who wins, 

With hidden pout, 
My eye — my mind — so I must poetize. 
For thy neat form and face, I must surmise, 

Are simple, sweet. 
Ah ! with thy kerchief white know'st how to 

joy 
With seeming love the heart of any boy — 

May we once meet? 

(1892) 



P o e m s 241 



ASMANSHAUSER. 

(A RHINE WINE.) 

Thou soporific wine, whose fires lull 
The active brain with lethargy and ease, 
Thou may'st not our great, bustling people 
please. 

For tho' thy body's with rare spirits full 

The moments after grow so stale and dull 
That all inventions in the mind do cease 
And dull, lethargic moods in us increase. 

Till in thy spell we sleep as noon-tide gull. 

So are thy people never so creative 

That they vast fair inventions may evolve 
For thy dim potency the energies dissolve. 

So is a stultor in their tingling native. 

For where is one great Newton or a Morse 
Where drowsy Rhine winds slowly his 
snake-course ? 

Aix-les-Bains, Savoie (1891). 



242 Poems 



SEYSSEL-WINE. 



Where beautiful the Rhone-vale flows and 
winds 
Old Seyssel lies ; with poplars sentinelled ! 
Around, the rocky mountains, history- 
spelled, 
Ascend ; with vineyards grown, where each 

one finds 
Their grapes most luscious ; but when they are 
turned 
Into fair wine, with hue as tendrils pale 
Of vines, then gulp thou some, quite gay 
and hale 
Thy mood will grow, that long for joyaunce 
yearned. 

A laughter will upspring; thoughts will sur- 
prise. 
Like jugglers with iridescent balls a-play 
So thou wilt pitch and catch thy thought al- 
way. 
And pleasure will make sunlight in thine eyes. 
For Seyssel hath such spell to sweeten woe 
And make thy lips leap, and sweet wit to 
flow. 

Aix-lcs-Bains (1891) 



P o e m s 243 

THE LOVER'S MORNING-HYMN. 

(Written in MILTON'S "Poems." [Pocket Ed.; London.] 

The shame-faced violet blows in the glade 

Its bloom may wilter in the sun's warm glow. 
But the memory of it will never fade 
In our soul ! Sweet love ! 'tis sooth. I trow ! 

The morn exults in praise of the One God ! 

And tho' thou beest far from me, my love 
My orison's fervor takes its fragrant food 

From thee, that seemeth at my side, my love ! 

My prayers are for thee ; to bloom thy bud to 
blossom 
So love's bud too ! Our souls are one, sweet 
dear ! 
As flies the breeze to rose, so I to thy fair 
bosom 
Affectionately would ! Thy heart-beats all 
to hear ! 

The inland murmur of fell, and foliage-song 
seem sweet 
Even when we walk the plain ; so sees my 
soul thine eyne. 
Even when in solitude my heart lists for thy 
fairy-feet. 
For, sweetest soul ! forsooth, true love is all 
divine ! 

(1885) 



244 Poems 



PHILIP J. BAILEY'S "FESTUS." 



I see thee, Bailey, studiously employed 

At reading book and book; therefrom these 
songs 
Their ceaseless well had. Night and night, en- 
joyed 
By delving ancient lore; life's sweets and 
wrongs. 
Or quaint religion's life; or magic's art. 
Thou to this work hadst filled a freshest 
spring, 
Till it burst out from thy hot soul and heart, 
Compelling thee, with mighty thought, to 
sing 
Of earth, and stars ; of death and Heaven's 
realm ! 
O justest high result of youth's fire-soul, 
Aflame ! Strange, strange, how youth will 
overwhelm 
The budding man : it is like morn : the whole 
Bright sky is flooded with a myriad hues — 
That when the sun shines high, their splendor 
lose ! ! 

(1890) 



Poems 245 



STRANGE, STRANGE. 



The steps I just have taken — 

I know I took once in a bygone dream — 

This stone veranda with its stairs 

Leading to gravel-walks of shady garden, 

wears 
The same aspect as that of yore 
When in my dream I so descended them 
To dream 'neath shades of trees in flower — 
The view from here — on plain and stream 
Or mounts triumphant — on clear skies — 
All, all I saw once so before 
When slumbers bound me — in night's hour — 
And I was betwixt life and death — 
To then awaken 

And wake again this life's own breath 
That flows from mystery's weird hem. 
That in some weirder country lies. 



All is not known to mortals — 
Are we the substance or its shadow — who 
Doth know? — No philosopher nor mystic 
Divulge the caverns dark cyclistic 



246 Poems 

Of dreams that haunt the slumbering clay ! 

Good God — what is the spirit, soul 

And heart of man — their binding essence? 

And what doth their reunion woo? 

Is truth the smile of powers strange 

That daunt research — and have their way? 

And is aye 'round us mystic presence 

Unseen — whom none may know 

Save passed those portals 

That, when life's dream — and night-dream's 

flow, 
Commingle and to heaven roll ; 
And we, life-dead, to new life range ! 



I know yon redolent flower bed — 
I saw before as true in bygone dream. 
That path meandering past fair trees — 
The odorous whiff of just this breeze. 
And e'en the tranquil, dreamy sense of all 
The attitude of mounds and hills — 
Were like this scene two years ago, 
When through my sleep those, scenes did 
stream. 



And e'en the bend that leads to stairs 
Descending to the garden-wall — 
Where vines and scented lindens grow ; 
And too a young bright girl's fair playing; 



Poems 247 

And e'en my own light wandering tread — 
Are as I felt them when strange dreams were 

swaying 
Me with more subtle thrills 
Than when life to strange death repairs ! 

Aix-les-Bains, France (Jan. 9, 1892). 



ON READING MILTON'S "COMUS." 

I. 
For two long weeks in bed I lay — weak, sore — 
In pain, impatient as a colt in stall — 
After the fortnight's lapse — to rack a thrall — 
For Milton's beauteous verse I did implore ; 
And read a page in Comus, Virtue's lore. 
Then fled unease, impatience, pain and all. 
Delicious wines I sipped — as at festival. 
I saw sweet scenes, heard murmurous music 
pour ! 

Only a page was I allowed to read. 
But then I felt as when in Syracuse-bower 
Redolent of balmy air and rich, rare flower, 
I sat me, while my dreamy eyes would lead 
Me 'neath a sapphire sky, o'er a deep-blue bay 
To fulgent Aetna, glorious in fair day! 



248 P o e 



m s 



II. 

Intensest agony I bore — as birds, 
Anest, breathe hard, where eagles fly o'erhead. 
So heaved my sore lungs, while I lay in bed. 
One week such rack ; another, with sharp girds 
Of weariness and utter desuetude. 
Then asked I for my Milton; and I turned 
To Comus : new life streamed — new r thought- 
Are burned — 
At once I strayed in Puck's enchanted wood ! 

Those words so thrilled with sweets of wolds 
Begat in me sweet sense, so that it seemed 
I felt, as when I trod Messina's folds — 
I saw, across the straits, where Scylla gleamed : 
The beauteous towering alps Lombardian rise 
Glorious rosy to the pearly evening skies ! 

III. 
Y\ 'hat wretchedness must man succumb to aye ! 
Our body is subject to such ills and woes! 
So was I doomed to lie by sickness' blows, 
For weeks upon my bed — weeks seemed each 

day. 
Then summoned I for Milton's various lay. 
One page I read — then in fresh overflows 
Those verses shed on me sweet sense that 

glows. 
So that, though ill I was, I sped away 
To other scenes — and felt as if once more 



P o e m s 249 

I strolled o'er Candanabbia's fragrant hills ; 
And stood mid sheld azaleas — walked through 

woods 
With blossomy trees, and live with song, and 

rills ; 
While I saw Shelley dream his divine moods 
Wand'ring along blue Como's redolent shore ! 

(January 17, 1892.) 

(Written in bed; convalescing 1 .) 



TO MILTON'S ITALIAN SONNET AND 
CANZONI. 

Alore beautiful of freshness and sweet smell 
Of rorid morn, and Juny noon or eve 
Are thy fair sonnets that sweet interweave 

Dear Love with all thy imagery so well, 

Than Dante's to his Beatrice to Heaven gone 
So redolent of all that blooms in May, 
So luscious — radiant — and melodious" they ! 

I love them so — 'twas easy so they throne 
Forgetless in my memory's radiant sky — 
Like clouds of June lit by a glorious sun ! 
How smooth thy fair Italian verse was done, 

Ah ! when I read : Italia's perfumes fly 
Around me ; and to woods so fresh I go — 
Where rills and winds like thy sweet num- 
bers flow ! 

(1892) 



250 Poems 



To Mine Inimitable and Divinely Souled 
MILTON. 

May warbled song flush thy strong words to 
riper bloom ! 
Or though the Doric flute again should wan- 
ton sweetness ; 
Or though the Cherub-choirs, with thought- 
preluded fleetness, 
Of sudden sound ! Could such thy melodies 

assume ; 
Could such strike their wit-diamonded lyres, 
as boom 
Of thy trumpet-calls; and tender strains in 

art-completeness ? 
Who thought again as unto thee ! The flow- 
ers' meetness 
Weds God's deep mystery — so thou slow man- 
kind's Doom ! 



Thou needest no pure Parian, vine-clung mon- 
ument ! 
Thy numbers, as the moon-drawn floods, 
outlast their death ! 



Poems 251 

Worlds wane — but thought, and births of soul 
— in Heaven's Womb pent — 
Eternity they choose ! . . . O, Milton, all- 
divine ! 
Sweet child of Heaven's Muse ! Strong youth, 
that pleasureth ! 
Stern man, to whom flowed secrets, as Ariu- 



sian wine ! 



(1886) 



NOCTURNE. 



Drowsy evening sinks to sleep — 
What time the purple clouds 

Above the hills sail peacefully — 

Letting tender colors peep 
From delicate sunset shrouds 

That gradual fade to dreamful gray. 

Then is no sound heard, nor breaks 
A murmur the eve's rest — 

But all lies praying at eve's shrine — 

Lull — and hush — and no bough shakes- 
While fades the gold-pink west 

And skv and earth inweave in each. 



252 Poems 

Sudden wheels the leathern bat 

Athwart the gloomy skies 
And dips into the pitch-dark trees — 
Sudden heaves the grassy flat 

With luminous topaz-flies — 
Like gems from shining seas of Ind. 

Now they fill the fields with light — 

As though some sparkle-orbs 
Of Jumna's Almes fled their caves — 
Luming here — there, sparkling bright — 

Then mystery absorbs 
Their fulgor — till they glow anew ! 

Sudden rise the mournful tones 

Of frogs along the brooks — 
And, on the sumach bough, the owl 
Softly "too-whos" — or she moans 

Near to the ebon nooks, 
Where night-birds pipe so drear and dread ! 

Sudden swells a chill across 

The earth — and dampness dreams ! 

While gloomier grow the massive holts. 
Like a death-dark albatross 
The western cloud drift seems ; 

While Night inspires gloom-fraught sounds. 

Night hath life ne'er known at day — 

Night sings a melancholy tune. 
And, after hushed moments, lived 
A world with song and lay : 



Poems 253 

Where life would mourn or croon ; 
Or stillness spread her unseen wings. 

(June 29, 1891). 

A SIGN OF RAIN. 

In the maple-trees — 
While the Northeast wind is blowing — 
And the dreary clouds speed through the night, 
The tree-toad sounds his sullen rattle — 
And shakes his leathern bag 
Filled with ten dry and hollow shells — 
There will be rain to-morrow — 
For in the maple-tree 

The toad sounds a drear gurgling rattle — 
A wooden tone as clatter of a brook 
Or the hoarse laughter of a rotten mill-wheel. 

(1891) 
GOLD. 

The miser loves gold, shaped into a coin — 
Fair Genevieve, when formed for beads or 

rings — 
Sweet Melis, when 'tis used for sacred 
things — 
Byzantine monarchs framed the idol-loin 
With purest stone — and Priapus inlaid 

His temple with rare sheets of sheeny 

gold- 
Some minds see it in tress of flaxen fold — 
In glints of sunlight through the fir tree shade. 



254 Poems 

I've seen it in the fire-flies' luminous light; 
Or in some stars — and once on the full- 
moon — j 
On ripples wlien the bees glitter in high 
noon. 
But, weirdest, in a fen where murk asps house, 
And blackest waters cradle alder-boughs 
In one pond-lily as a gold-ball bright ! 

A WALK. 

To-day, my Genevieve, while clouds, 

Eager to drench the fields, 
But held in sky by potency — 

Wore plates as shields on shields 
All o'er the mountains, dales and hills — 

I sped along the jungle weird 
Of a small brook, with many a nook — 
For thee and me, when nearness thrills — 
And there of sudden a bird appeared — 
With shriek prolonged, and crimson crest 
As scarlet as the cloud within the west, 
When the glow sun is far, far down eve's 

shrouds. 
Then was it running up the boughs — 
And up the trunks — and peeking fast 
For grubs that in the bark would house. 
Then flew away — and then I passed 
An open to a hill ; — and there a view. 
On village quiet and on mountains blue — 



Poems 255 

And down the grassy grade to where marsh- 
blooms wade 
In black ooze, w T here the marsh-bird "chucks" 
And shows his orange-scarlet neck-ring there. 
Then to a pond with golden-beaked ducks 
And covered with the gold of the budding 

lily's fold- 
Then on to thee — thy face to see 
With laughing eyes — and lips' replies — 
And importuning gaze — with pleasantness 

ablaze — 
And rippling speech — and a tender pleach 
Of thy hair so hued as now the grain 
Is fair, when July's heat aw T aits the rain — ■ 
Then off — to waterfall alone 
Where none save I have ever gone 
To listen to its mystery — 
And love its moss, its trees — its softly fluting 

breeze — 
And its most deep tranquillity ; 
So like naught that a man doth know ! 
It is a fair place where great magians go 
To fathom things no brain can learn — 
For there, flash-visions wander through the 

soul — 
And thinking thrives — and dreamings burn ! 
And there they see what flames at life's 

strange goal. 
And there of sudden shrieked a bird — 
A large grey bird — with crest of crimson — 



256 Poems 

And when it saw me, away it flew — 
Down through the gloomy gorge where grew 
Long grasses — by the rocks and lichens — 
Then left I — thinking of one fair accented 
word ! 



MOOD. 

I feel the need 

Of some sweet, tender body 
Adjusting all its fair voluptuousness 
To mine ! 
When hearts will bleed — 

And her deep eyes be glowing — 
And I will lose my woe in her dark tress 
Divine ! 

O come along 

Thou witchery of blood — 
Thou subtle breath from passion's lips, wild 
burning — 

Come, come ! 
And to my song 
An unknown flood 

Of newness will upwell like love's sweet 
yearning 

Abloom ! 

(August 18, 1 89 1.) 



Poems 257 

LIFE. 

The lion, lording o'er all beasts of prey, 
And head imperious-posed when standing 

fierce 
Upon a rock upon the desert's bourne — 
He glories in his majesty and might ; 
He stands alone the monarch of his realm ; 
He hideth naught ; he roars when hunger 

stings ; 
He seeks his mate when his impetuous blood 
Runs rioting with deep desire and joy. 
His passion hath no bounds — and nature's call 
Finds answer in his joyous howl of passion. 
He seeks his mate — and both their bliss enjoy. 
The eagle, sailing in the vanity blue 
Above the cliffy ocean-shore, at morn, 
Calls — and from her high eyrie perilous 
His mistress rises swift, and, in the clouds, 
Conubial joy they taste all unperturbed. 
They hide not from the world around their 

weal ! 
The rare libellula, that darts above 
The marshland-roses — when he meets his 

mate — 
Poised on the tremulous air, they joy and love 
In sight of blue-bird, golden bee, and thrush. 
'Tis man — and he who long through ages 

grew 
To be earth's monarch in the realm of love — 



258 P o e m s 

'Tis man alone who hides himself from view 
When loving some fair maid to beauty child. 
Thus is our life a hiding of all bliss. 
We drape what prompts our nature grow as 

fire. 
All feel impelled to seek a lover's joy. 
But aye we keep well hid our quick desires. 
So are we not sprung from the Simian ape — 
We have quaint shame that dwells within our 

hearts. 
O world — all try to win a maid — 'tis all 
Men care for. journeying through this tearful 

vale ; 
Yet men aye hide love's fire — and try to 

quench 
Love's ardent flame ; we think of passion's 

bliss 
Forever — but convention makes us seek 
Seclusion for love's heavenly pleasurement. 
O, life's a sham ; we flout at Nature's voice — 
Yet all are slaves to passion's potent sway ! 

(October 31, 1898.) 

THE GODS AND GOD. 

What consternation to the Roman vision, 
There must have been, when to the praetor's 

ears 
The handful men did shout the name of God ! 
Before, each emperor prayed to the Gods — 



Poems 259 

And to them gave rare sacrifices. Vestals, 
And priestesses, and comely handmaids then 
Kept sacred all the rites ; the temples stood, 
Each serving as a shrine for one fair God 
Of all the numerous train. For every mood 
Of myriad-hearted Nature they conceived 
A power presiding over it — and so 
Their hundred gods grew fair as flowers in 
June. 

What mockery the mighty melody seemed 
That rose in grand acclaim to the one High, 
To all the Roman folk! Upon their tongues 
Lay satires, jeering at that worthy God — 
Who came to usurp the power of their gods. 
The Romans mocked ! But soon they mar- 
velled 
At seeing Christians die for that one God — 
And soon some Romans swore to join the 

host 
That prayed to Christ. 

But oh ! the parody — 
That God, whom Christ adored, let haughty 

Rome 
Murder at will a thousand thousand clays — 
And thirty thousand served as festive torches 
When Nero willed it thus ! In spite of this 
Martyr on martyr lived till time had wrought 
The mighty church, that now outstands the 
ages. 



260 Poems 

And still, Christ's teachings have not worked 

to change 
The billion followers of Buddh, or Thot, 
Or Confuce. The gods reign still — and God, 
The Mighty Lord of all, cares not if woe 
Assails His near adorers, those that pray 
To Jesu for salvation of their souls. 
Oh ! conflict wild of fair religion's own — 
Who worships best? Xo one can tell the 

truth. 
The Musselman adores his Allah ; the Chris- 
tian 
Deems Jesu God's own son. Still, statesmen 

smile — 
They rule the nations ; and law and Mammon 
Mock at the prophets — so the world pro- 
gresses. 
When lo — at death the truth will be revealed. 



ISIS. 

Damp was this April day, with clouded sky, 
A whiff of chilliness came from the wind — 

But as I stood within the park, near by 
I saw the golden-rain, its branches fraught 

With blossoms ; and lilac bushes there behind, 
Pushing its leaves ; 'and farther, near the 
lake. 



Poems 261 

The willows, green in their first vernal dress ; 

But all the other trees by grove or brake 
Still stood in their sad winter-nakedness. 

Then sat I on a bench — and there I thought : 
O Isis ! still unveiled by age and man. 

None hath thy secrets fair unravelled — 
We men know naught of Thy dread plan — 

None to Thy far, far land hath travelled — 

Isis ! though a score of aeons now are gone, 
Thou still dost prove to bear a heart of stone ! 

And I, a poet, whose deep thought should see 
Into the very depths of Thy creations — 

1 pause — and find new mystery 

In each of Thine august manifestations. 
O Isis ! complex abstract standing age aft' 

age 
The fond despair of greatest prophet — and of 
sage ! 

We all must try to solve Thy riddle stern — 
But 'tis a law that none may solve it clearly ; 

E'en Jesu could Thy hidden secret not dis- 
cern — 
Who would, hath for his powers paid most 
dearly — 

For even Thou the Veil dost draw down o'er 
Thy face — 

Man lives a child, seeking in vain to win Thy 
grace. 



262 P c m s 

O Isis ! ever veiled to time and man — 

None hath Thy secrets yet unravelled. 
We men know naught of Thy strange plan, 
None to Thy far, far land hath travelled. 
O Isis ! we are bold to try to tear Thy Veil 

apart — 
For solemn, grand, aloof — a wondrous riddle 
still Thou art ! 

(1900) 



THE EPIC OF THE THUNDER. 

Roll on the raving floor of the loud storm 
Thou Thunder — riotous voice of the swift 

lightning, 
Triumphant light ! — And while Thou rumblest 

wild 
My soul shall dash before the world's dim ken 
All stress and storm that urges joy and pain 
To combat 'gainst the other ! Roll, thou, 

Thunder— ' 
So that my ears be filled with all that moans — 
That shrieks — that sighs, that whispers in dire 

agony ! 

The world — the world — what is it — oh ! di- 
vulge 

Its secret sighs ; — 'twere best, though, were 
they hushed — 



Poems 263 

Yet God doth anger when the clouds upswell 
And crush each other, till their jangling cries 
Resound so frightful — not one heart is brave — 
But every hand is clenched — in awe-suspense — 
Till the faint echo be lost in vast space ! 
The world, the world ! — Sad product of vain 

men — 
In whom gilt vanity bore in their hearts 
The canker that ate all sweet concord's core — 
When harmony smote on life's lyre sounds of 

songs 
Fond Nature blushed with love for all — but 

man 
Trod on those blossoms — and sprung the 

strings in twain — 
So now discordant shrieks rise from life's lips, 
Dead to Love's kiss ! The voice of child is 

hushed — 
Youth hath no almond-buds to show — nor rose 
Of virgin fair unfolds for wedlock-hours — 
Manhood is chained to Mammon — woman 

slaves 
Herself to fashion's tyranny — and age 
Foregoes to deck rare Beauty's brow — 'in- 
stead 
Age clings with bony fingers yet to gold. 
Then shriek the poor ones who were born of 

these 
O innocent poor souls, gifted with Heaven's 

own joy — 



264 Poems 

When blooming in the swales of the low 

world — 
Must share their misery — or die unblessed — 
So rolls the Thunder of the world abroad — 
The lofty souls hear it — and frightful — stare 
Aghast — and question God — yet only rolls 
The Thunder — as o'er cloud-enveloped hills 
The riotous voice of the swift lightning sounds 
Till in vast, ruthless space it fades away ! 



WHERE IS LIBERTY? 

O beautiful, fertile land of Liberty, 
Whom our forefathers saved from monarchy, 
Art thou now 7 slowly growing haughty, proud, 
Forgetting in thy wealth the free-born crowd? 

Art thou, my own Republic, in disgrace ; 
Masking with kingship thy God-trusting face. 
That thou these days thy loyalty dost lose, 
Shamming thy pledge when thou didst Free- 
dom choose ? 

"The People" is a name to thee to-day — 
Thou would'st encrown thy head with gold ; 

and sway 
The mass as kings and tyrants used of yore? 
Forbear! — Beware what such hath aye in 

store ! 



P o e m s 265 

We want no lavishness for single heads — 
Where Need amongst our sturdy people 

treads. 
No single man and woman to claim a throne — 
We want to claim the People as our own ! 

O beautiful, sacred Land of Liberty, 

Keep yet thy sweet Republic monarch-free — 

What sin to spend thy wealth for show and 

power 
Where thy dear people are in want this hour! 

(1902) 



"O, NO ONE THOUGHT, BY GAZING, GOD'S 
OWN WORKS TO PRAISE!" 

(a description.) 

Below a hazed sky, there floated on 
A heavy mist ; its rim touched the far sun. 
And thus, by law, the golden rays deflected. 
And the thick mass of vapors dense and damp 
On the far sun a color play effected, 
Such that no mortal's pyrotechnic play, 
With fountain-splendour, or with broken ray, 
Could imitate ! 

As a large silver lamp, 
Left lonely in the cloister's marshland-gloom, 



265 P o e m s 

So rounded the far orb ; then, as, in days 
Of Virgo, hastive cherries, so its rays! 
When loud the battle's din, and cannon's boom, 
'Tis then that whizz the fiery bombs, and flash 
Bright orange flames, that in the smoke-clouds 

loom, 
So seemed that silent sphere to flame, and 

dash 
Apassed the toppling walls of pinked mist ! 
Like orange, grown in lands of promise tall, 
So balled the largening sun, fast sped ! — Not 

all ! 

And when the hurrying people such not wist, 

I saw it gild to shield of aural lustre, 

As when the Lesbian lime-fruits crowd, and 

cluster 
To denser bunches. Now it peeped just over 
The rim ; and flushed ! as thickest fields of 

clover, 
Flamed by a summer's heat ! then waxed it 

red: 
As the clear flood — when heroes lie adead 
Upon grey mounds, where hurtle would not 

grieve 
E'en w T hile flowed tranquil songs of breezy 

eve ! 
There wafted then the fringed mists upon 
The orb — it seemed as when the smiling fruit 
Of pomegranates burst : and, as on crown 



Poems 267 

Of rubies, sparkle all the seeds so bright 
By the so acrid shells of crome-grey-green. 
Then, pending in the sheet of greyish light, 
The sun did seem, as though it hung to drop ! 
But on a mystery it must so lean : 
For lucent, as the wave of glow on top 
The silent lake, so argent seemed the orb. 
Then beamed its light, as when the poplars 

mourn 
To see the glimmering glare turn purplish- 
gold! 
As velvet hasp, that chains a Margrave's horn ! 

Then flashed it yellow rich — as vernal shoots 

Of the young maple, trembling aft' Spring's 
tears 

Of joy ! Then glared it in soft white, as 
cheers 

The glow-sky, when, long hours of patter, and 
pelting 

Have drenched the heavy wood-rose, and are 
melting 

Firm mosses in the wolds, earth's torch-light 
old 

Endues the view with brilliancy, as gloss 

On steel or platina. As jonquils toss 

Their crowns with Aeol's gloaming-thren- 
ody — 

So waved the rims of grey mist — in the sky 

No sun rolled ! 



268 P o e m s 

Lo ! as embers in some corb 
Of Asa- folk — a spot ! — till gyring swift 
It seemed Ixion's wheel — no spell will lift 
Its axle — ever turning in its fire! 
Intense it glowed, as though its burnished ire 
Would harm some lonely hamlet ! but it staid 
Withon the colored shroud ! for all was made 
By mind and will — no ending, nor a birth ! 
A presence round the universe's girth ! 
I saw then how it paled to the moon's face ; 
Could see the lurid white swift interlace 
The tearing folds of the large fog! . . . 

. .O, many more 

Swift changes would evolve, would red, would 

pale, would soar 
Away, away ! would glare, would cream, would 

gold, would whiten ; 
Would bleed, would sicken, would blush, 

would fade, would brighten! 
And none upturned a thoughtful eye to see 

deflect 
The sun's rays, which were far more beau- 

teaus than effect 
Of pyrotechnics in that garden, by the roar 
Of colossal falls, that whirl in thunders far 

away 
To where once Wolffe upon the battle-ram- 
parts lay! 
O, no one seemed adoring what naught did 

produce ! 



Poems 269 

No one his eye upturned, to know how mists 

educe 
Strange dichromatic blooms from suction of 

sun's rays. 
O, no one thought, ^by gazing, God's own 

works to praise ! 



And as I looked — one in the multitude of 
men — 

One in the flurry of footsteps — in the open ken 

Of all ! but being not perceived — O, one of 
those 

Who are born ; — joy ! — despair ; and bleed with 
many woes — - 

Methought how wonderful a globe the un- 
known sun ! 

The air, and vapors ! so miraculously done ! 

Methought of the vast mysteries up there, 
whom none 

May know ! and thought I, that we are a mys- 
tery ! 

Upheld by the known truth that we must sud- 
den die! 

O, orb of sun ! of pupil of the body's eye ! 
O, universe ! O, wondrous growths on planet's 

round ! 
O, singing stars! O, linnet's carol — breeze's 

sound ! 



270 P o e m s 

O, mystery of the God ! O, spirit's wondrous 
flight ! 

O, angel's watching! O, will of tyrant's pass- 
ing might ! 

And as I watched — and saw no one that gazed 
with me: 

Methought an Angel showed me all what I 
did see ! ! 

Paris (November, 1886). 



A FANTASY. 



SUGGESTED BY ROBERT SCHUMANN S 
"FANTASIEEN/" NUMBER SIX. 

O, hoar moon ! lookest thou again so mourn- 
fully 
On yon old bard upon his gold-harp leaning ; 

While thou dost shed thy silver glitter lov- 
ingly 
On castle, cliff and wold, their stories glean- 
ing! 

O, hoar moon ! and, methinketh, sound the 
strings so sweetly clear : 

Prophetically — loving whispers — murmurs for 
a tear! 



P o e m s 271 

O, out in the balm of thy pale gold-breath 

He flingeth his chords to a song so hoary : 
As the hellow of ocean they touch a death ; 

As the glitter on wavelets they ring a glory ! 
O, passion he sways : and fair love lingers 

there — 
And a moan, and a cry of keen anguish and 

care. 
O, prophet is he ! his gold harp is his voicing : 
Of a woe he preludeth, of life's short re- 
joicing! 



Say! was it clear as it soundeth the mourn of 

thy swoon-trembled wave — 
Say ! were they human, those strains, or the 

echoes from surge-doled grave ! 
Tell me, O hoar moon ! what prophet had said 

such sweet weals, and sad woes — 
Tell me! the ocean would surge so, as drearly 

his prophesy flows ! 



O, out in the balm of thy pale gold-breath 
He flingeth youth-songs that reblossom 

never : 
As the wind that the cliff woos, they mourn 

of death ; 
As the white wings of sea-gulls, they float 

forever ! 



272 Poems 

Say! was a train of white blaring gholes 

sweeping through night's majesty! 
Say ! was the thrumming exultant from love, 

or from souls in the sky ! 
Tell me, O hoar moon ! what sounds are there 

scattered in fray with the wind; 
Lo ! do I hear the old harper strike passion, 

as wild storm so blind ! 

Clear — clearer — till the strains seem super- 
human : 
Prophetic ring the strings ! 

He harketh to their glory and their praise. 
Dim — dimmer — till they seem the wail o' a 

woman : 
All mournfully she sings ! 

It seemeth though the bard no longer plays ! 

Hoar moon, O hearken ! the harper in wildness 

runs trebles to storms ! 
Hearken, O hoar moon ! his strains mingle 

harshly : like storm's ghastly forms ! 

To the bride he tunes his harp : 

Singing songs for rose, and myrtle ! 

Whisp'ring sighs of love, and languor! 
When the strings twang loud and sharp : 
Sounding booms of battle's hurtle ! 

Wailing moans through cannon's clangor ! 



P o c m s 273 

And the storms of soldiery : 

Clashing in the steep, dark wood-land ! 
Glitt'ring in the beams of moonlight! 
When the strains flow of love's glee: 
Calling all, to kiss the wooed-hand ! 
Gathering to dance i' the boon-night! 

The passion-strains win back the happy days 

Of old — all softly straying through the air ! 
They dream into a glum reflectiveness 

Till seemeth it as if no bard thrummed 

there ! 
But doth not the low wave now whisper w T hat 

he sang and stringed; 
As though the surge swang to the cliffs the 

echoed strain he ringed ! 
I hear, O 'way down there the moans and wails 

of prophesy — 
As though on crisp of the woe-wave the harp 

rang sadd'ningly! 

O, hoar moon, O hearken ! O, clear as when 
sounds of dawn waken, 
The prophet upheaveth his lore in majesti- 
cal tone. 
O, loometh not, like some awe-dream, 'way 
afar the ghost-Kraaken, 
And listeth in wonder and awe on the sea- 
waste alone ! 



274 Poems 

O, clear as far Lebanon's sighing his strains 
ring so free, 
Uplifting the spirit to lands of soul-love and 
of peace ! 
O, hearken, O hoar moon ! euphoneous sounds 
his prophesy 
Of far, solemn hours, when these frets and 
these foibles will cease ! 



Sound not again in strains so hoary 

His memories of gloom, his moods of glory ! 

Tell me, O hoar moon ! were ever such strains 

touched by mortal, as those — 
As all so pure the gold-harp to the hoar-wave 

its extasy flows ! 

O, hoar moon ! hark ! — what pierceth all the 
air! 
And trembleth in the highest lones of thy 
drear sky ! 
O, hoar moon ! what aspiring lays up there ! 
As though the bard were now enveiled in 
Sanctity ! 

Exultant glories he — straining the strings to 
stringent sway — 

Up yonder seemeth drink Elysian wine — 
Up yonder seemeth raise his Nuptial Lay ! 

Up yonder seemeth joy in dreams divine! 



P o e m s 275 

O hark, O moon! exalting soars the piercing 

strain — 
But woe — with sighing strings falls victim to 

deep wails again ! 

And out in the balm of thy pale gold-breath 
He flingeth youth-songs, that reblossom 
never : 
As the aspen-wail round cliffs, they touch a 
death ; 
As the moon-beams o'er waves, their lorn 
strains weave ever ! 

Hoar moon ! hath sudden repulsion come on 

him that memories sound! 
Boyhood's sweet memories ; hours when others 

rose-garlands had wound ! 
Tell me, O hoar moon! hath highest elation 

a thought of the past, 
That to the ocean's weird harmony strikes he 

what ever will last! 

O, his rippling strains send through the wind, 
the joys 
Of dances, there in sun-gilt groves of chest- 
nuts hoar ; 
Where he gazed at maidens, garbed as sweet 
decoys — 
And breezily slow-winding 'long the bosky 
shore ! 



276 P o e m s 

O, his strains stream on the main the cheery 
song, 
That dreamed along the rivulets ; by fid- 
dlers spurned ! 
When he lured the fairest from the revelling 
throng 
And, wooing, neath the old wold's oak, his 
heart had burned ! 
But there came a day, all when alone 
His heart had sunken; 
His blood, so drunken 
With the wreaths of vines, had no more flowed : 
As when he kissed ; 
As when her tryst 
Was a world by wold so hoar, where no moon 
glowed ! 



O, his strains seem sounding long-gone plaints 
and woes : 
When at the harvesting he thrummed and 
sang for all; 
When he dashed his harp against the walls of 
those 
Who glow in tinsel — loom in castle — seem 
as pines so tall ! 
O, his strains send through the star-warmed 
wind the days, 
When gloomily he wandered o'er tract, and 
dim, dun wold ; 



Poems 277 

When his gold-strings pierced a stone-heart; 
wooed the praise 
Of languid maiden; and to mourners solace 
' told; 
And there dreared the evens, when with none 
He shared his bread; 
His prayer had said; 
When in solitude his tears would run — 
And thrummed in woe, 
That pained him so, 
For the frore days cowled him — by anguish 
done ! 



Hoar moon, O hearken ! again his gold strings 
weave sad tales of the past — 

Hoar moon, O hearken ! the strains lose their 
sadness o'er ocean so vast ! 



O, out in the balm of thy pale gold-breath 
He flingeth his strains that are sad and 
mournful : 
As the low tones from harp-strings, they wail 
of death; 
As the spray spatters headlands, they w&ver 
lornful ! 



278 P e m s 

Prophetical ! like blowings in the Halls ! 
Prophetical ! as far the vulture calls ! 
Were not spirits wailing through the caves ! 
Were not spirits breathing in the waves ! 
Hoar moon, O hearken ! the harp soundeth 

clear through the roar ! 
Were not souls departed whispering low ! 
Were not blessed souls wailing of ago ! 
The harp-strings quiver far alternate, joy and 

wail ! 
The prophet praises, and doth mourn ! 
The gold-harp saddens loud of roses red, and 

pale ! 
The prophet standeth all forlorn ! 



By cliff and rock, hoar moon ! thou lookest 
gloomily ; 
And gleanest from the wold its ghastly 
story ! 
By ruined towers sound the harp-strings drear- 

ily, 

And weave a strain of old, so weird and 
hoary ! 
Prophetically — whispers of a doom — for 

sacred flight ! 
And out in the balm of thy pale-gold breath, 

The strains float with a wailing ; 
Thou lookest adown — and thou art like death ! 



Poem s 279 

The harper strikes a wailing — 

Of sorrow — of sorrow — 
Till the gleaming new-morrow — till the glow- 
ing New-Morrow ! ! 

(1885) 



SONNET. 



The mighty Boabdil, whose dusky hords 
Were lieges to him, built his wondrous towers 
Above Granada's streets and hidden bowers — 
Such marvel Moorish-building fair affords 
A pleasure for the knowing eye and brain — 
Yet do I know a building fairer far 
Than ruined Alhambra — where designings are 
So perfect, they melt to a dreamy strain — 
It is the Venus-body of Mathilde 
Reared all below the Sierra's eternal snows — 
Her eye — her features — and her senses thrilled 
By the sweet marvel-touch where passion 

glows — 
A building shaped by Mystery — and filled 
With feelings rare, God-given, when passion 

flows ! 

Granada (March 13, 1893). 



280 Poems 



SCENTS. 



The Mimosa's golden flower hath a scent 
Like precious pears and peaches put in 

pouches, 
That Urawadja scented — so she vouches — 
The daisies blowing by thousands in merri- 
ment 
Along the w r ater-courses, feeding well 
The fruitful fair oasis by the desert — 
Have a peculiar scent — and where the lizard 
Runs o'er the sands — rare yellow flowers spell 
Me when I smell their strange and faint per- 
fume — 
But when w T ith some young Cabyle-beauty's 

bosom 
I play so innocently — on my hand 
There lingers long a scent rarer than bloom, 
Some far-off dream's aroma there doth blos- 
som 
Unknown to fairest .flower of the land! 
Biskra (Feb. 23, 1893). 



Poems . 281 

TO A YOUNG POET. 

Oh ! sing away to ears of thine ideal — 
Ne'er think its shadow lives 'mongst wo- 
mankind ! 
Thou ne'er thy song's fair image here can'st 
find. 
For women young ne'er so intensely feel 
As thou, young poet ! They are only leal 
To wealth and matter's joys — but never kind 
To pure upliftings of the soul like fragrant 
wind — 
They think but of earth's comforts and the 
real ! 

Thy malady dispense with, ere grim death 
Take thee untimely. Sing to no ideal — 

But' w T hen a maiden's soul true whispereth 
In answer to thee — then uplift thy weal 

In poetry noble — for thou so can'st prove 

That in the having is the bliss of love ! 

Biskra (1893). 

INSPIRATION. 

Preluding in vague reverie alone, 

My mind seemed vacant like a wood-girt 
plain 

On whom the ashes of late fires had layn 
For dreary weeks — when suddenly fair tone 



282 P e m s 

And tone in sweet succession flowed rare- 
blown' 
From agents — where they living were — I fain 
Would ask ; but to that inspiration's strain 
I listened — playing, ere it be far-flown — 

So cometh to the lonely souls aglow 

Uncalled-for tune — ah ! me ! who tell from 
where — 
Who can such sudden intuition show? 

It is as in the summer's clear night air 
The lightning flashes — who hath known its 

home ? 
Ere querying, swiftly glowing, it doth come ! 



TO THE ELM. 

Thou graceful tree with limbs outspread — 
As dreamily as arms of maidens, longing — 
When o'er their heads they grace their hands 
And all their body dreams the dream of love — 
Thou standest on the borders of the lake, 
Thy stem all broad shoots up in sprays 
Of gently curving branches so thou seemest 
As though some fountain in soft Persian 
groves. 



Poems 283 

Thou standest single or with others of thy 

kind, 
Fair emblem of all gentle grace that lingers 
In dreamy maidens when they long for love. 
At noon thy branches are all dark — but when 
The western sun falls low, they seem like 

bands 
Of tissue — that from thrones of Baalbek fell! 
I love to let my wearied eyes contemplate thee, 
Thou graceful maiden-imitating tree; 
Whose branches dream in curves as we may 

see 
On maiden-shapes when longing makes them 

be 
The fairest sight of all humanity! 

Del. River (1897). 



BABY LOUISE. 



O have you seen the baby-bud 

Of some fair woodland-rose, 
That yet was in its emerald fold ; 
But, on the top, a pink eye peeped 
So laughingly to gladsome maiden-May, 
That flaunted all her flowery bandlets gay? 



284 P e m s 

So was my babe Louise these years : 

Just four years smiling with our world ! 
She let the joy of life peep forth 
From her young eyes, untutored yet; 
And was the rose-bud of her mother's heart, 
That seemed like gladsome May to leap and 
start ! 

O have you seen that baby-bud 

All after one sad day of blight; 
And seen the pink top fade away, 
And all the green fast shrivel there; 
Till from its stem the blighted bud fell down, 
And lay all withered on the grass alone? 

So, one sad night, my babe Louise — 
All after one short week of pain — 
Fell in the icy arms of Death, 

And brought a void in mother's soul ; 
And, like that rose-bud, now is gone away — 
To leave us mourning here from day to day ! 

(Feb. 15, 1898). 



P o e m s 285 

WHAT THE MIRROR TELLS ME. 

Not only for low vanity 

The mirror shows our features, all — 
But that we see mysteriously 

How we are made or large or small. 
Gaze in the mirror — O the prize! — 
We are aware that all is not in man's own 
eyes, 

But something makes our lids fall down — 
Something makes lustrous the dull balls 

Oh! something rules each twitch — and 
crown 
To all : all movements to our soul are thralls ! 

Narcissus, in the grove, for Echo waiting, 

Chanced lying at the pool's fair brink — 
Then gazed he in it — what elating ! 

He saw his image — and began to think : 
Are thus my eyes swift-moving — 

While all my head is stony still — 
My eye's flash must be proving 

That my body is not life's will — 
But something makes my eyeballs roll — 

Ah ! back of clay dwells the mysterious 
soul ! 

So when I gaze into the mirror — 
Not for my features do I look — 

But some uncanny unknown terror 

Doth seize me — as near moon-lit brook — 



286 Poems 

What am I — ah ! I'm spirit — - 

I look at all through my swift eye — 

Myself of nature inherit 

The electric unseen potency 

To thrill by gazing, any one — for lo! 
My body's but my soul's strange portico ! 



A FLASH. 

O God ! how will they stand aghast, 
When they will see my fire-songs : 

That leap up heavenward, as, in the blast, 
Long clouds, lengthening to demon-thongs ! 

(1887) 



Poems 287 



Bam? Salla&a, 



BALLAD OF LEO'S SELF DEATH. 

She was my friend — and is it now — 
Though from fair Heaven she looks down. 

We told each other of each vow 

That blossomed from our heart's true 
crown. 

We were like confidants, and told 
All secrets we had locked to stay ; 

And when she braided her locks of gold, 
I sang to her a tender lay! 

We were like sisters; nay, like those 
That feeling Heaven in them, cling 

To one and the other, as do the boughs 
Of elms to the vine's coiling wing! 



288 P o e m s 

We loved each other; had I said 

But one last word to stay her despair — 

Mayhap she would with lightsome tread ^ 
Have yet been breathing this year's air! 

(Alas! the sand-grams in Time's glass- 
Unruled by man, eer downward pass — 
Even as the dew at evening — 

And death comes like the blight to grass — 
There is no use of murmuring — 
But whether lives be blesst, or lives feel sting, 
Death fills his goblet— and spreads his mystic 
wing!) 

I, Merced, know her fate. And 'tis 
To me that, whoso wants to hear, 

Should bid me sing of her early bliss — 
And last, her death-seen love-vowed tear! 

To Love she vowed to be love-true — 
To Love she's pledged forevermore. 
. And 'twas for Love she did self-death woo- 
To melt to soul-life the pain she bore ! 

In Heaven's serenity she now dreams — 
All lovers true to Heaven will fly. 

She hath lulled her tears that flowed like 
streams — 
For her -'twas as balm that she could die ! 



P o c m s 289 

I, Merced, know her life. And 'tis 
To me, that whoso loves to hear, 

Should bid me sing of her marriage-bliss — 
And last, her death-given, love-wept tear! 

Like the bubbling of waters, whispering low 
In bowers of roses, and slender trees — 

With the lilting birds on every bough, 
And the airs thrilled with melodies. 

So were the days when her son she kissed — 
Were the hours, when love heard lute-soft 
tone — 
Were the weeks with eve-skies of amethyst — 
And the years, when love's true violets 
shone ! 

And manv a morn had we chatted fond — 
As maidens are wont to whisper then; 

But we never had thought of a time beyond 
That would dim our friendship's anaden ! 

In those sylvan years when life is green, 
And budding blossoms seem like berries 

So pink as is youth's bosom's sheen — 
Or red as are June's garnet-cherries — 

In those delicate seasons of love and life, 
When ten and six years bloom a lass — 

My Leo was one year a loving wife — 

And her boy rolled on the blooming grass ! 



290 P e m s 

She loved, as only mothers can, 
Her beautiful boy as fair as she; 

With love as trust, she loved the man 
Who loved her just as lovingly ! 



And as the skies do love the even, 

When she her softest kisses presses — 

So thought she, love was her sweet heaven- 
And he loved all her fond caresses ! 



I, Merced, know her fate. And 'tis 
To me that, whoso loves to hear 

Should bid me sing of her early bliss 

And last, of her death-given, love-vowed 
tear ! 



There dawned a morn when their home was 
gloom — 
For her spouse he had wandered away — 
To those fields beyond, where love's tears will 
bloom 
And love's vows will know a sweeter day! 



There was dole, and her grain-hued tress 
Curled o'er her tear-dewed eyes — and o'er 

Her rippled lips, that no more could press 
Them on his, as she had so oft before! 



Poems 291 

So years sped by. And when mandrakes cut 
The soggy shore of the vernal brook — 

And wee flowers spring forth in every rut 
Of ground — or flash in forest-nook — 

Two winters after, one spring-day 

She met a man — and she loved him at sight. 

And loved him with might — and loved him 
each day. 
And said : I'll love him at morn and night. 

He loved her — since she loved him so well. 

But man is wretched, and cruel man 
May bear a heart as they burn in hell ; 

And he loved her, thoughtless of love's 
strong ban ! 

Yet he promised her to make her his own. 
And he kissed her boy on his curly locks ; 
And he promised he would not be long-time 
gone, 
But return when winter the wild wave 
rocks ! 

I, Merced, know T the truth of her fate ! 

And whoso will hear how she did fare, 
Should bid me sing of how r desperate 

A heart grows, when love has grown 
wretched there ! 



292 P c m s 

I drave a whisper into her heart : 

When the winter-moon sailed in soggy 
skies ; 
A whisper, that disclosed a part 

Of a fear I nursed, since no replies 

For many a day, had come from him. 

And that whisper tore open a wound: 
Oh ! it bled from that day ; and it made her 
slim 

Of hope ; and she uttered no cry or sound ! 



And it was a scarlet bird 

From the south-seas brought over for her 
That spoke to all with human word. 

And near it she would often demur; 



And sing to it songs of faith and troth; 

And question it, while in faltering mood, 
When they could be truly wedded both — 

Or if to her with love return he would. 



But the moon was full ; and the stars they 
shone ; 

And many an awful gust flew by. 
But never he knocked at the door alone; 

No sign of her lover rose ever nigh ! 



P o e m s 293 

We were like sisters ; aft' she had told 
How she loved him with purest love ; 

And wished to wear the wide ring of gold 
That should their pledged union prove. 

For days she was altered, as is the flower 
That stood in gloryhood like joy — 

But one slow morn hath reaped gloom's dowser 
And droops its crown — for life's annoy ! 

So faded she — and waiting, grew 

To be as desperate as the fawn 
That seeks the forest for one they slew 

While morn sprinkled jewels o'er the lawn! 

I, Merced, know her fate. And 'tis 
To me that, whoso wants to hear 

Should bid me sing of her sacrifice 

To love, when she gave to Death Love's 
tear! 

But never he came ! And never she spoke 
One word more of such cruel heart. 

And, in her soul, in her soul she broke 
The vow to glow as his counterpart. 

For her heart could no more bear the pain. 

So she shot herself on a winter's morn. 
And her pain did melt in the soul's strain 

That, when love conquered, in death is 
born! 



294 P o c m s 

So love had lulled her despair to death — 
And love had not let her love him more : 

Such love she bore hath truly like Angel- 
breath — 
Such love we cruel ones should adore ! 



And when the bier was set up in the room — 
He never came ; but many a friend 

Had come to shed a tear for her doom — 
And mourn for so sad and woful an end ! 



And when the bier was carried without, 
The scarlet and smaragd bird of the south, 

In mystic murmurs "Good-bye" called out — 
As though the sad words came from a 
mouth ! 



And to her grave we went to-day : 

This cheery cold winter's gem-like hour — 

Woe, woe ! my only true friend's away — 
She died in her years when all's in flower ! 



So young — beyond her teens two years ! 

Oh ! had I spoken two words to rrr 
She might have kissed me — and shed some 
tears, — 

And promised me she would demur ! 



P o e m s 295 

{But the sand-grains in Times crossed glass 
Unruled by many e'er downward pass: 

Even as the light from the stars! 
And death comes like the blight to grass! 

There is no use to wage great wars. 
But whether lives be loveful — or lives have 

bars- 
Death flaps his mystic Wing, and mounts His 
cars ! 

I, Merced, to all who heard, have told 

Of Leo's love, deep as an Angel's troth — 

How she longed to wear the wide ring of gold, 
That should join to shining wedlock both! 

But man is cruel, and wretched his heart ; 

As though burned of hell, so treacherous : 
And he pledged to make her his counterpart — 

But never came he — may he bear great 
cross ! 

My Leo leans from Heaven's thrilled life ! 
She loved for love's sake — she's an Angel 
now : 
Though here on earth she was no wife — 
In Heaven her soul hath greater glow ! 

(Jan. 24, 1891.) 

(Written in two hours' time.) 



296 Poems 

BALLAD. 

(TOIvD by a young, imaginative girl.) 

PROEM. 

There are some natures sensitive as flowers — 
And in whose soul imagination showers 
Most subtle sights or feelings touch-remote — 
Their eyes see at broad day strange spectres 

gloat 
Back of an arras, or from corners dim — 
They are far other than our common whim — 
They are so real that to such they seem 
More natural than things we see in dream — 
Frail maidens, with imagination gifted, 
Have from life's dregs the subtler essence 

sifted 
And they grow real like an image fair — 
They have a shape of life, and are not air — 
Oh ! maidens with such fancy-figures floating 
Afore your imagination's weirdest eye — 
You see strange phantoms from recesses gloat- 
ing— 
You deem those true things are your wander- 
ings nigh — 
To you this ballad, which is true as breath 
I dedicate — and garland — with an ivy-wreath ! 



Poems 297 

Once, in my early days of life, 

A strangest prescience clung 
To me — a weirdest thrill was rife 

About, when I had sung 

By flowers rare in fresh June-fields — 

Like Proserpine in vales 
Of Enna far from warriors' shields 

In gold and fragrant pales — 

Or when I strolled alone homeward — 
By meadow-stream — or wood — 

Or when upon the flowery sward 
I for my loved one stood — 

Or when 'neath the suckle-porch 

I dreamed of mother-hours — 
Or when the August sun would scorch 

The many golden flowers : 

All over had that presence thrilled 

My path ; or, while I mused — 
Had all my languid dreamings filled — 

And had my thoughts suffused. 

So that my eyes grew glaring wild — 

And all who saw me then 
Had thought me a bewitched child 

Born in a haunted glen! 



298 P o e in s 

Oh ! I was haunted — by a thing 

I could not see nor feel — 
Nor question what strange happening 

Had made it pale my weal — 

But like a thought it hovered round — 

Nor would it leave my side : 
Oh ! e'er with no revealing sound 

Near me it would abide ! 

Yet strange, at times methought to know 

That it withdrew from me — 
And I could feel its presence go 

Afar o'er sward through tree — 

Still it would e'er return, and craze 

My tortured mind and eyes — 
Till my heart swore to hurt its ways 

By my loud screams and cries. 

Then shrieked I — like a Sybil hurt 

Upon the lonely strand — 
And yelled : "Thou curse — and if thou wert 

A form with foot and hand 

I should do havoc with thy ghost — 

Then felt I that it fled 
Like sound of breeze when it is lost 

Within a fountain-head ! 



P o e m s 299 

I felt it onward move — unseen ! — 

Then sprang I from the grass — 
And ran to where the wall is green 

So it could not farther pass. 

Oh ! while I ran past the fair vines 
Where the wall a corner made — 

There, there, I saw a black vail's lines 
Writhe languid in the shade! 

A black vail — fair like Hahduh's own, 
That warms her blooming limbs — 

Writhe with a Hahduh's languor lone, 
When dusk the lotus dims ! 

Writhe in its lace, ethereal-wove — 
So like storm's vanguard-ghost — 

Then vanished it within the grove 
And to my sight was lost ! 

Then wrung I my two hands amain — 

As nuns that shrive and pray. 
Oh ! blessed, that I may again 

Live an unhaunted day ! 

And to the roses I run; 

And kissed each petal's core — 
And since that time when I had won 

The presence came no more. 

(May 16, 1891.) 

(Written in thirty minutes.) 



300 Poems 



THE ROUGH RIDERS OF THE WORLD. 

What care they for our small philosophy — 
Our show, our manners long acquired? Wild 
Of birth, they live from day to day, nor think 
Of the to-morrow. Faith is all their creed — 
They ask no questions — but to Fate supreme 
Bow, as a serf at the Czar's golden throne ; 
Knowing that Fate doth deal or good or bad — 
They dress as suits their hazard life ; and act 
As they desire; foregoing all our rules 
That tell us we should monkey men who set 
Up etiquette for their own vanity. 
Have they a church which people oft' frequent 
To show their new-made dresses to their 

friends? 
Their temple is the prairies, the savannah — 
Or the far steppes — or deserts vast and lone. 
They lift their eyes to the clear skies at day — 
Or sing a song to night's one-million stars — 
And praise their horses — or the glowing sun. 
They, need no pews — no preacher, iterant 
Of long-dead tales ; nor would they kneel be- 
fore 
An image said to be a god or saint. 
Proud outcasts of the world's society — 
They often bear more love to God the Glorious 



Poems 301 

Than many a one who pays the parson — 
Or sits so proud in church on Sabbath-morns. 
They are with Him — for round them spreads 

in glow 
The vastness of the plain and azure sky — 
The rippley breezes fresh from matin-dews 
Play round their swarthy brows — and they can 

feel 
That breath ! they watch the slowly circling 

condor, 
And see the feathers sparkle in the sun ; 
They hear the murmurs of savannahs green — 
Thus do they marvel — while to their free souls 
They must acknowledge some fair Power who 

made 
All that they see — and hear. But in our tem- 
ples : 
How small is all — our sight is checked of sud- 
den 
By stone- walls ; and no winds may sing to us 
Large magic songs ; no flower may smile to 

make 
Us love the Power who wrought so wonder- 
fully. 
What care they for our shallow vanities? 
They have none ; daring is their life ; to use 
Their strength and to display their skill elates 

them; 
They learned through bitterness that life is 
earnest. 



302 P o e m s 

Their happ'ness rests with horses — and their 

fame 
Is horsemanship ! — If by the wild Garoo 
They spur their steeds o'er boundless plains — 
Or by the Danube shout in sheer delight — 
Or linger near the Amazonian valley — 
They love their freedom ; they are lords of 

earth ; 
They sleep in huts, or camp by swollen floods, 
Or rest their bodies 'neath the starry heavens. 
Their frugal meals they share with one an- 
other — 
Xor do they need such sumptuous, board 
As kings enjoy; they riot in their fair, 
Sane independence — and they would snap fin- 
gers 
Were gorgeous gardens with glow-palaces, 
Yet close shut in by fences, offered them. 
What were the gardens of Semiramis 
To them? — they would feel cramped; they 

need the wide 
And boundless plains to ride their steeds full 

speed ; 
They must be sure that day and day would 

pass, 
Before their wide domain could find an end. 
The pusta is their joy — the steppes seem 
To be their heaven ; the prairies wave and flow 
For their delight ; the green savannahs breathe 



Poems 303 

*To them the scents of life ; those strong, rough 

riders 
Are happy only in their saddles, orned 
With gold and jewels, or plain, with garniture 
Of bison-hide. 

It must be joy to spur 
The horse, on cool sweet dawns, just when the 

sun 
Doth gild the mountain's rim, and sparkles 

flash 
Upwards in sprayey jets to the blue zenith; 
And when the freshness bathes one quite, as 

when 
One feels the spray from mountain-torrents 

sprinkle 
On face, on hands, just when the breeze hath 

blown 
O'er pine, and crag; then shout agog — and 

dash 
O'er sand and stones and bush and herbs and 

knolls. 
Such is true joy; and such those riders feel 
Each day; — how could they long for town or 

walls — 
How could they ask for streets or parks or 

lane? 
They needs must know their sovereign home is 

space — 
For boundary is a myth ; freedom ennobles 
Their souls ; the glory of the firmament 



304 Poems 

Keeps fair their minds — and the fresh air 

keeps stout 
Their hearts that beat all warmly for their 

land. 

(June, 1897). 



THE WOES OF GREATNESS. 

I. — POETIC PART. 

Far from the greatest town in all the Union — 
Beyond the larger Lakes, lies Salt Lake City — 
A hive of busy souls — surrounded drear 
By level plains, a dead black sea, 
And, farther, range and range of silent moun- 
tains. 
There Orson lived. The high Uintah rear up 
Their giant-rocks into the sky; and ever, 
From glorious autumn's death till spring's 

return, 
The highest peaks shine white .from ice and 

snow. 
Upon a height above the black dead sea 
The city lies ; — the Mormon-town, with temple 
Of quaint design — the long wide streets, with 

trees 
Arow — the fair low buildings, garden-girt ; 
The memory of Mormon-rule. There, Orson 



P o e in s 305 

Had gone to live ; annoyed by eastern life, 
He sought new scenes in midst of grand dis- 
plays 
Of Nature's work — and there he found them 

all: 
The vast blue firmament ; the ragged mounts — 
The silent peaks — the solemn ranges long — 
The wide low plain with sedge and flowers — 
The dreary stretch o' the black and oozy lake — 
And when the air was thrilled by winds arage 
The desert-storm. All these he fain would 

make 
His own — as he was gifted with the curse 
To think great thoughts, and- muse on life 

sublime. 
He had full oft succeeded with his pen, 
And earned. a pittance with his lighter verse — 
Or with the shorter tale ; but his ambitious 

works, 
Oft sent around from town to town through 

years, 
Came back unused, as ships sent out to sea 
With cargoes fraught, sails are unreefed to 

plough 
The changeful main to bring back home again 
The golden merchandise. Such wearied him — 
He grew a hater of the eastern manners low — 
He vowed to write some grand fair plays, 

away 



306 P o e m s 

From men that favored friends of meaner 

powers ; 
Whereas those minds who had created works 
Of merit large, were left to their despair. 
It is a curse at times to be born great. 
Many a man with all the finer traits 
Of intellect, imagination, and true art — 
Succumbs to woe ; if left forgotten oft, 
And dies, unknown to all the plodding world. 
Full oft the Doric-flute is heard — the lyre 
Of Milton sounds — and echoes ring, though 

low, 
Of Shakespeare's universal organ-tone — 
But no one hears ; the world pursues its greed, 
Its show — and loves its self-sufficiency — 
While in some nook forsaken sings a man — 
Or in some town some intellect creates 
Fair dramas like "Prometheus," God-like 

work. 
But they remian unknown — and what they 

wrought 
Grim fire devours, or oblivion swallows. 
Whereas those influencial patrons place 
Their friends' insipid plays before the crowd 
And they thrive well. 

All this wise Orson knew. 
His soul was great — it had the genius-glow. 
His works must be a wonder, or they are 
naught. 



P o e m s 307 

He was not like the many men these days, 
That dwarf their gifts by making gold their 

aim; 
That are low slaves of public taste, and lose 
The magic spell of Heaven-inspired art. 
They thrive — but they have not the talisman : 
Th' imperishable mark on work that grew 
From th' Heaven-thrilled soul; the quality 
That makes a work unsaleable — yet gives 
It immortality. He knew it well; 
And thought of Wordsworth chanting peace- 
fully 
His song sublime, while ridicule was his. 
And thought of Shelley who was rudely exiled 
By his own countrymen — and slandered oft. 
Recalling Homer, who wandered desolate 
O'er hill and vale through his own native land, 
Unknown to his ; remembering young Keats, 
A god of Greece sprung up amid his age, 
How he was killed by supercilious men 
That are blind not to see the sparkle of genius 
Within some budding song. And many more — 
For Orson's genius loved to read the lives 
Of those long dead; and from their fates he 

sought 
Sweet consolation for his lonely life. 

And Orson knew the world as pilots know 
The many hidden reefs below the surface 
Of strait or bay. He had been south to see 



308 Poems 

The battle-fields and towns of years ago 
When Lincoln sent vast armies 'gainst the 

South 
That would keep slavery alive. He thought 
Of writing plays that would portray those 

times — 
And when he made his home in Salt Lake City 
He there began to work as authors work, 
With impulse, patience, arduous will — 
The great creation chiselled lay, for all till fair 
To read, admire. 

But in the lonely pauses 
When mind grew tired, he w r alked alone out- 
doors — 
And saw at morn the skeins of rain hide 

mounts 
And lake ; at noon the sun burst forth — at eve 
The peaks and ridges grow roseate as the sun 
Kissed vale and mountains a night-long fare- 
well. 
To Douglass Fort he walked, and from its 

height 
His eyes beheld the grandeur of the expanse — 
The long calm lake, the bluey ranges round — 
And, back of him, rose threateningly the 

Uintah. 
And often, through the year, he witnessed 

well 
The desert-storms come raging o'er the town ; 
Xo rain descended aft' the gale announced 



Poems ' 309 

The hurrying storm; but all the air grew 

brown 
With sand — while whirlwind, hurricane joined 

fast 
To smash frail fences, hurl stones through the 

air — 
Uproot young trees — unroof low huts — or 

push 
Some careless wand'rer to the ground; for 

wild 
The sand-storm grows — and pitiless he rages. 
Woe to the man who braves his demon-powers, 
He must fall down ; — and, oft, when to the vale 
His fate leads him, the sand-storm brings him 

death. 
Eight years he led such life creative there — 
And plays, and poems, stories short, had come 
Fair-built from forth his meditative mind. 
But no one saw them ; hidden in a trunk 
He kept his plays. He knew his master-work 
Would some day be renowned — and valued. 
But Influence never waved her rosewood- 
wand 
O'er him — so that he needs must live obscure — 
Perchance his works left all unread forever. 
He was so poor, he could not pay for food — 
So on a day, the people found him dead — 
And so had passed away a glorious soul — 
A mind most varied, intellectual, pure — 
But world-ignored — and left to starve alone. 



310 P o e m s 

II. — PROSAIC PART. 

Down, where the Mississippi flow T s in dreams, 
Along some tributary, aged cypress-trees, 
And oaks gigantic, stand. Some are so old 
That all the sap hath gone from root and 

trunk — 
Leaving the tree-trunk dead. No leaves sprout 

more, 
When balmy winds from Cuban shores blow 

o'er 
Th' Louisianiaii stretches, wild and wet. 
Spring may not green its branches new again ; 
The oak-tree's life hath gone. But there you 

see 
The mistletoe, like eagles' nests, hang strag- 

giy- 

Or, down some lower branch, the beard-like 

mosses 
Stream shaggy to the grass luxuriant green. 
Some living vegetation finds its life upon 
A long-dead tree ; so in the human world 
Some men dishonest thrive upon the works 
Of long-dead men. 

It happened that, the day 
Before our Orson died, three authors came 
To Salt Lake City. From the east they came. 
They were in search of subjects fit for plays. 



P o e m s 311 

Two were theatric managers ,prim, stout, and 

red 
Of face — deep shrewdness twinkling in their 

eyes. 
The third, an author true, though lacking 

genius. 
"This town is not a place for comedy — 
How desolate the scenery seems — here Dante, 
The purgatorial poet, would have sung 
More Hell-like songs than when he heard them 

sound 
Within his soul inspired. Here are no themes 
For us. 'Tis best we travel westward on." 
The author voiced his thoughts gloomily. 
"Not so," his shrewder friend retorted then — 
"We'll wait a day or so — chance may be ours ; 
We'll read the news each morn — perhaps we'll 

find 
Some scandal kept for local papers only!" 
"I do agree with you," the third said quickly. 
For he was shrewd as Satan — and would not 

let 
A hairbreadth-chance escape his greedy clutch. 
Thus waited they. 

As Orson had no friend — 
His body had to lie far from his home. 
They buried him upon the hill in view T 
Of lake and rocky peaks. Then all his chat- 
tels— 



312 P o e m s 

Not much forsooth — were sold at public auc- 
tion, 

The fourth day after he had lonely died. 

One day before, the papers told the story; 

And, lightly touching on the dead man's life, 

Disclosed that he had lived like a recluse 

For many years — and it was known he wrote. 

When the shrewd manager beheld the news, 

Fast smiled he then ; he must bid on the trunk. 

For in it there must be some stories fair, ' 

Perchance some play. 

The three were timely there 

Xext morning. The trunk was shown ; bid- 
ding was brisk — 

Till for a paltry sum the trunk was theirs. 

When they came home that afternoon, they 
oped 

The trunk — and what surprise was theirs that 
day ! 

Five plavs they found — ten stories short — a 
book 

Of poems fair. "Not Dante could have found 

Such treasure ; we've been guided auspiciously. 

Three cheers!" the author joyously exclaimed. 

Then conned they many — and their final shout 

Was : "Three plays meet w r ith our approval !" 
Hurrah I" 



* 



Poems 313 

Next winter in the eastern metropolis 

The public's voice was loud with praise; for 

he, 
The author who had found our Orson's plays, 
Had won success with his "Down South It 

Was." 
A play of perfect art — dramatic power — 
Written by him, his name upon the bill. 
But none suspected that the real author 
Had died a year ago, his bones acrumbling 
Within the saline earth of bare Utah. 
The honest author reaped no guerdon fair — 
Nor heard he praises sung by crowd or elect — 
Nor was his name fast heralded afar — 
But the dishonest author, lacking genius, 
Yet owning shrewdness and ignoble aims — 
He gloried in the glamor of the shouts — 
And praise rung brilliant round his ears sur- 
prised ; 
All while within his guilty heart he felt 
His conscience prick him, as with cactus-hairs. 
His guileful mind acknowledged his low play, 
Yet baseness lies, within the special blood 
No one can make it change to loyalty — 
As in the Indian's blood, though teaching use 
Firm rule to civilize the savage mind 
Years after, when he's left alone — at once 
He yells, hunts, scalps, and paints his face for 

war, 
So he laughed loud at his unearned success — 
And drank with friends to cleverness and trick. 



314 Poems 

III. CONCLUSION. 

How is the public cheated often times, 

As this our song attests ! Who knows how 

trick 
Is often basely used for honest work? 
How sad it is to know that genius builds 
Vast works that find no recognition wide; 
But when death takes him — they are praised 

and sold — 
Or pirated, as with our Orson great. 
But of such men the world is made — ah! me! 
Our Orson's name remained unknown, and 

Silence 
Keeps locked the whereabouts of his far grave, 
To all the world at large. He worked and 

thought — 
Created plays of worth, that worthless seemed 
While he had lived — but when he died were 

praised 
Not only by some authors competent, 
But by the public, as fair master-works. 
O genius ! thou riddle of the sciences — 
No glorious place hast thou in matter's book. 
Thou art so different from other men — 
That, to my mind it seems, thou art a god 
Holding all Knowledge in thy soul, yet quick 
With Spirit, till new life glow in all thy 

works ! 

(June, 1897.) 



Poems 315 

TO THE FIRST FIRE-FLY. 

(1897) 

The crescent hung above the city-towers, 
The planet sparkled to the right — 

I looked across the yard to ivy-bowers 
And all lay still in thickening night. 

I gazed out on prosaic houses low — 

One house had ivy o'er it trailing — 
While 'bove the roof, afar, their spires 

Loomed faint — like sails when storms are 
wailing. 

1 
All lay so still ;— like million motes all dusk 

The air of night veiled objects all — 
South-eastern breezes shifted smoke aslowly — 

To gloomy thoughts the world was thrall. 

I gazed out in the stilly night — and dreamed — 
'Twas July, on her honeymoon — 

When near the weird houses, of sudden, 
gleamed 
A minute spark — and vanished soon. 

Again it gleamed — and moved so slowly on — 
Then lay the wall so black as night, 

Methought it was within the room so lone 
That some one came with candle-light. 



316 P o c m s 

Then suddenly out of my dreams I woke — 
Yea, this was July, newly come — 

And then I knew that in this month their lived 
The glow-fly — seeking a sleeping bloom. 

Yea, there it gleamed — then dark, then a 
spark — 
And so it moved the house along; 
A minute spark that moved — then grew all 
dark — 
The first fire-fly o' the new-born throng ! 

I hailed its fair advent to summer's heat 

When city-houses lie forlorn — 
Though dreary are the houses and the street 

A charm is of a sudden born. 

Then live thy short, short life — O fire-fly — 
Thou gladdenest our eyes grown weary 

Each month hath a new wonder for our eye, 
We joy again, though we're grown dreary. 

The hot night's dusk is live with lanterns small 
That move — now sparkle they awhile — 

Then are extinguished — so through night 
withal — 
And thus man's weariness beguile. 



Poems 317 



THE CITY IN THE SEA. 



AN IRISH LEGEND. 



Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher — 
Welter alway 

The waves of the sea; 
Though around the ocean's bosom be 
Calm as the scented sleep of Tranquillity, 
Ever in that spot have rolled the waves 
Splashing on rocks, and sounding the wave- 
lipped caves ! 
Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher! 

Out in the bay 
Near the cliffs of Moher, 
Welter away 

The waves of the sea; 
Once there stood and glowed a city free — 
Palaces and streets built pompously — 
Haughty the ruler was ; — he did a crime, 
But it lies dark-covered to man and time. 
Save to the bay — 

Near the cliffs of Moher. 



318 P o e m s 

Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher, 
Welter away 

The waves of the sea — 
Every seven years — all gorgiously, 
City with turret and palace rise full free, 
Glowing in merry splendour as once of old- 
But all life lies dead — and all is cold — 
Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher. 



Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher, 
Welter away 

The waves of the sea — 
Could a man but keep his eyes aglee — 
Cross the rocks and pools all safely — 
There the town majestic he could restore, 
Looming up in grandeur — as before — 
Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher. 



Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher, 
Welter away 

The waves of the sea — 
But no man e'er gained the city free — 
So the spot must e'er a secret be — 



Poems 319 

Though the sunny calm doth reign around 
E'er the waves lash foam with mystic sound — 
Out in the bay 

Near the cliffs of Moher. 

(Sept. 18, 1891.) 



WAR-PAINT. 

(1890) 

There was rustling and surging of grasses dry, 
When the Rosebud-Indians, on their ponies, 
dashed, 

With many a yell and shrilly cry, 

O'er Wounded Knee Creek; and savagely 
crashed 

The farmers' huts ; and ran cattle down, 
As even in days, when Custer's band 
Was levelled with the blood-stained land, 

And blood was streaming in many a town. 

When bleak November's blasts were blowing, 

White River's floods were wildly flowing — 
By the regions of Bad Lands four times 

One thousand war-painted warriors brave 

Were pillaging towns, by White River's wave ; 
Burning churches — alas for the silvery 
chimes ! 

Razing houses ; and massacreing the men, 



320 Poems 

The women, the children, the life in the pen. 
Then onward they flashed like a furious storm, 
Of many scuds when the summer's warm — 

To the Big Bat, the scout's, corrall, 
Where seven times hundred horses he had — 

Thev swooped upon it — and then they stole 
all, 
And rode off, like a crowd of demons turned 

mad, 
To the caves and the canons of Bad Lands : 
A country wild, where the age-old sands 

Have taken shapes of forts, and of towers — 
With embrasures and embattlements strong; — 

And there Short Bull is wielding his pow- 
ers ; 
Alert to avenge the white man's wrong. 



Short Bull, with his demoniac face, 
To all his warriors tells apace: 

That on one night he saw four stars 
Fall from the midnight heaven — he went 
For the orbs of night's wide firmament — 

But three arose to the myriad stars, 
While one lay on the ground; — beside 

It was a letter he could not read — 
To the warriors he said : ah ! woe betide ! 

It is a message that I should lead 
You warriors against the pale-faced foe. — 
And all believe it must be so ! 



Poems 3 21 

Short Bull, Two Strike, Crow Dog, Kicking 

Bear, 
Those four keep their thousands of warriors 

there ; 
In the land of the sands that have merlons 

wide, 
And towers, and parapets, where they hide 
From the white-faced foe, marching onward 

now — 
While the cold is on sand, on every bough 
Of the few pine-trees, that give ambush some 
To the Rosebud Indians to find their tomb 
Soon or late on the tracts of the wild Bad 

Lands. 
And as the snow-squalls are whitening the 

sands, 
And the winds howl about the battlements, 
By Nature made — so o'er the throng 
Of the Indians, our deadly cannons strong 
Will send death balls ; and our army-tents 
Will whiten the grounds of the Indians wild, 
And peace will again be our country's child! 

But in the memories of those, 
Who have heard the Rosebud Indians dash 
O'er plains, and passed settlements flash — 
The sound of the seething grasses dry, 
And the chieftain's yell and shrillv cry. 
Will be like harsh strains sung to bitter woes ! 



322 Poems 



TO A SWEET MAIDEN'S EYES. 



Whene'er thy lids are upward drawn — 
Methinks to dream at Spring's rose-dawn — 
For in thy rosy features fair — 
When I do smile — two violets blossom there! 



LYRIC. 



You've touched the vibrant chord 

That is to me like soldier's sword — 

You've set my soul astir — 

To sing to Eros' dulcimer — 

So is the chord sweet vibrant made 

By those fair words thy heart had said ! 

Fair genius-girl, with gifts unnumbered ! 
Why through these days have thy songs slum- 
bered? 
Why had not thy heart-words been ringing 
To lithest lilts, and wanton singing? 
Why had not I known this new gift thine own 
While all these days thy lesser gifts had shone ! 



P o e m s 323 

You've made my lyre quiver 

Like lily-stems along Love's river ! 

You've touched the vibrant string 

To make me ever sweetly sing — 

So is my song-sky, dappled with thy numbers, 

And now my lyre's world no longer slumbers ! 



LOVE. 



Rare relic of the ages old 

When yet fair-browed chivalry 
In quest for thee came strong and bold 
To sue for her — to win — or die ! 
Now thou art thrown aside like some lace-gar- 
ment worn 
For in all maids the thought of gold 
Is born! 

The blushes of a vernal day 

Would send a thrill of joy to maids, 
For they could, by the woodland way, 
Meet their loved swain in blossomy 
shades. 
But now the girls sit in gold chairs for Mam- 
mon's call 
And fill their hearts with vain display — 
Their thrall ! 



324 Foe m s 

Sweet pout of virgin lips, stay here — 

Thou amorous rose-kiss — rest thou yet 
Within our folds ! throughout the year — 
And be for us our violet — 
But through the autumn of this century there 

grows 
In maiden's heart no flower, man's pet, 
Love's rose! 

(March, 1895.) 



LOVE. 



Oh ! love is beauteous harmony ! 

Her thoughts must chime with his- 
As notes that make a melody, 

Sung by fair maids of Nis ! 

Oh ! hatred is a dissonance 

Within the minds of two ! 
How can a sour soul entrance 

A soul that loves all true? 

Oh! only when their thoughts are kin, 

Then only can they love. 
How can he who is loath to sin 

Fit mate for fury prove? 



Poems 325 

Oh ! love is harmony, my dear ! 

We love, for both our souls 
And hearts chime as a tune so clear 

Where the glorious Hudson rolls ! 

(October 18, 1902.) 



TO AN ESTUDIANTE. 



"What may'st thou do, my black-eyed fellow! 

With thy large, bony hand? 
Thine eyes are filled with long-wept woe, 

Thy sober mouth seems no more bland, 
And weird is thy mustachios' flow. 

What may'st thou do with thy lank hand? 
It seems it knows but strife and woe !" 
"Ah ! with it I may thrill the strings 

Of my own alto-cello — 
While my sad gaze 

Makes memories blaze — 
And brings 
Weird tones to my own alto-cello !" 

"What may'st thou do, my black-eyed fellow! 

With thy large hand so pale? 
Thy black, deep eyes are upward turned; 

Their white glistens — what is thy tale — 



326 Poems 

And hath thy heart for true love yearned? 
What may'st thou do with hand so pale 
When thy black eyes are upward turned ?" 
"Ah ! with it mournful tones I sound 

On my own alto-cello : 
Weird melodies of deep gloom — 
Where sea-cliffs loom 
Around 
At eve — when sea waves moan and bellow !" 

"What may'st thou do, my raven-locked fel- 
low ! 
With thy pale, bony hand? 
Thy black mustachio flows like power — 
Thy eye-ball rolls with sadness bland; 
Thy head-locks seem an ebon flower. 

What may'st thou do with thy pale hand — 
In it there seems no wondrous power !" 
"With it I play on strings deep-toned 

Of my own alto-cello; 
Call back dark days 
Or lithesome lays 
I owned 
When hills and brakes were rosed or yel- 
low I" 

"What may'st thou do, my weird-eyed fellow ! 

With those lank fingers all? 
That hang like cicles from thy pale palm !" 

Like petals to drear blight a thrall. 



P o c m s 327 

What fire streams from thy black eyes calm? 

Yet lank are thy pale fingers all — 
That hang like cicles from the pale palm !" 
"Though powerless they seem, they thrill 

My own dear alto-cello : 
Swift Jotas jingle 
Till bodies tingle — 
With skill 
I play upon my dear own alto-cello !" 

"Then come to me, sad black-eyed fellow ! 

That bony hand hath pow r ers 
To change to smiles the weary days. 

Those fingers all are spelled with dowers 
From weird, sad, joyous, moody lays. 
To change to life the weary days !" 
"Ah ! friend — now listen to the tone 

Of my own alto-cello : 
The heart-sighs hear — 
And many a tear 

That own 
A long, sad tale — like waves that bellow !" 
New York City (1892). 

SONG. 

I see her tombstone set up there 
Where the autumn-winds must blow. 

Upon a hill-top — open to the air 

And to the flakes and flakes of snow. 



328 P c m s 

It is not real; 'tis not of stone; 

But in my soul it loometh high; 
And telleth me that I must be alone; 

My life a dream — my life a sigh! 

I see her tombstone set up there. 

Oh ! am I breathing thro' the day ? 
It is upon a hill-top — where 

The fickle seasons mourn and play! 

(1887) 



OTTO HEGNER. 



At last I've heard thy myth-performance, 
child ! 
Thine artist-head on those frail shoulders 

borne — 
Those fingers putting older men to scorn — 
What all-surpassing power is in them, when 

the wild 
Concerto calls for passion ! — then what mild 
And soft-touched notes that melt into the 

dream 
Of melody, like nymph-songs by lilied 
stream, 
Commingle with the breeze — so Pan's be- 
guiled ! 



P o e in s 329 

O child ! thou hast the master-mind in thee ! 

Each touch hath feeling, bears a thought 
thine own; 

Some question who hath in thy being strown 
Such ease, such fire touch, such mastery! 
While listening, while seeing thee perform — 
Who doth deny God's breath in calm or storm ! 



MUSIC. 

AT SYMPHONY CONCERT. 

While all the instruments were lost in sound — 
Schubert's last symphony they played — there 

sped 
In me strange thoughts ; and stranger 
dreams were bred : 
A multitude of tones ! — they leapt — they 

wound, 
In languors ; — thunder smote ; and the pro- 
found 
Beat fast against its cliffy shore ! Instead 
Of melody, a battle — hurtle from dead 
And living demons rose from out the ground. 

Was that sweet music's climax ; the fair crown 
To all of tones and complex harmonies? 
It seems to me those wrangling melodies 

Are like earth's elements, when they do frown : 



330 Poems 

Xot understood, but wondered at ! Who 

knows 
What Schubert dreamed, ere the piece saw 

its close ! 



AT THE THEATRE— "CARMEN." 

She singeth cheerily her light sing-song — 
She danceth wantonly the Spaniard's dance ; 
With castagnettes, amerrily — a trance ! 
And laughs, and smiles, and pleases the pit- 
throng ; 
She seemeth gayest, healthiest — more than 
young ! 
But, wretchedness, as others now advance, 
When she may turn her head, may turn her 
glance, 
And sing no more ; oh ! take thine ear along 
The stage, and hear the deep, hoarse cough 
that sounds. 
Let thine eye spy the soft small hand that 

pressed 
A heaving bosom ; a paining eye, that 
wounds 
Thy feelings all humane ; and see her tresses, 
That tremble when covertly her sick heart 
bounds ! 
Would'st not implore to Mercy that she 
blesses ! 



P o c m s 331 

THE BLISS OF DREAMS. 

Once in a verdant valley — 

Whose southern slope bore rugged rocks — 
With draperies of rosy eglantine 
And puffs of red-gold columbine — 

There slept a pool ; around, grieved docks ; 
Yet on its bosom shone a flower 

Of deepest gold — 
And near there rose a vine-dressed bower : 

The dream-maid's dewy fold. 
All day she there would dally 
While breezes fluted musically 
In and o'er that verdant valley — 
To Nature's beauties she was thrall — 

She loved the listless bees 

Murmur in clustering linden trees — 
The low, faint sound 
Of the valley's snow-foamed waterfall ; 

She loved to see the smaragd snake 
As 'neath the daisies fair it wound — 

And loved to hear from budding brake 

The linnet's song the day awake ! 
All on the sunny days 
She bathed within their golden rays — 
Yet when the dripping drops 
Of June-rains fell on chestnut-tops 
Within that viny bower, under cover, 
She dwelled with her sweet unseen lover — 
Her lover, who had brought her store 



332 P o e in s 

Of dreams, to dream them o'er and o'er — 

All in the morning she would twine 
Rare fillets of fresh flowers 

In her golden tress divine — 
All in the silvery noontide hours 

When music rises from the lawns and woods 
Upon a lute she played — 

All in the even in those solitudes. — 
Forth to the pool she swayed 
Her languid shape that dreamed as though 
The essence of her dreams she swayed so 
That part they took in her fair gait — 
And there she mirrored her sweet face, elate 
With vision she would see 
Within the dark pool's secresy ! 

She kneeled before the golden bloom 

Then touched its petals rich and rare, 
Then on the shbrly bosom of the pool 

She saw swift pictures living there — 
When round the docks, so succulent and cool, 

She heard soft wails like moans of doom : 
"We in this pool 
Live ruled by one rare flower of gold. 

This flower is ruled by the valley's ghoul, 
That haunts our deeps since ages old. 

This central golden bloom 

Is mankind's only doom — " 
Then bends the Dream-maid closer to 
The gold-flower : "Not a one doth woo 



P o e m s 333 



v 



A dream to pass away their time, 

When dripplings gloom — or winter's rime 

"No dreams those people 
Know ever — they who rear high steeple 
And edifice of wood or stone — 
Are votaries of gold alone !" 
Then grew the pool as brown 
As hujnmum, when the sun is down. 
Apace — 

With marvel grace — 
As bounds an antelope 

Down some slight-shelving, flowery slope — 
She seeks her vine-dressed bower 
And trims her bosom with flower and flower ; 
Then flute the breezes musically 
In and o'er that verdant valley. 
And in the even calm 
The Dream-maid there doth dally: 
Wrapped in odors rare of quince, and balm 
Of suckle — and the many blossoming vines. 
Then upon a canopy of roses, 
Fresh yet with dew from delly closes, 
Her marvel shape she there reclines. 
Dreaming blissfully of wondrous things 
Far from the world whose idol rings 
From stony, harsh hard gold — 
So are the dreamers in the world's large fold : 
Furnished with dreams from that fair valley 
Where breezes flute and all sings musically! 

(May 2, 1891.) 



334 P o e m s 

BALLAD. 

(a fact occurred yesterday.) 

White lily-life is often outraged wild! 

To spare expenses an unfortunate 
Rich man will do away with his own child — 

Our woe and joy are in the hands of fate! 

"What carry you upon that bier — 
It seems 'tis beauty frozen — " 

"Oh ! gaze — and shed one silent tear — 
Death had a blossom chosen — 

"Death entered in her father's mind — 

Till he grew frantic quite 
And gave his child to the sea and wind 

Deep, deep in the dead of night !'" 

"And had you found her naked so — 

With but a shoe — a ring. 
Her robe, her golden tresses' flow — 

Besides, no other thing?" 

"So in her glowing nudity 

Afloat on the moon-lit wave — 
We drew her up from the dark, deep sea — 

To honor her with a grave !" 



Poem s 335 

"Oh ! is it true — no direct clue ! 

Who may that beauty own — 
Her eyes seem two clear drops of dew — 

Her frame as firm as stone. 

"Like marble-wraught, so perfect fair 

Her naked body lies — 
Her tapering fingers, her well-kempt hair, 

Her large and noble eyes — 

Her neat white feet — her haunches full, 

Her rounded limbs, and waist 
Upon whom rises so beautiful 

A bosom beauty-graced. 

"All show that she on luxury thrived — 

The idol of wealth's home — 
Yet who — wherefore — what had deprived 

Her through life's summer to roam !" 

"We know not, Sir — we picked her up 

While making then our round, 
But think I that her father's cup 

Of wealth had fallen to ground — 

"Mayhap a family large had he — 

So, in despair, he told 
Some men to drive her to the sea — 

Her garments to unfold — 



336 Poem s 

"Then with rough violence thrust her far 

Upon the ocean's wave 
While on the deed gazed night's cold star 

And not an one to save !" 

"How could a man such actions do 

A sinless woman to kill — " 
"Ah, me ! 'twas love of wealth did sue 

That she should e'er be still !" 

"Can a human heart beat in such men 

O God ! I faint in Thee— 
That where Thou art, lies a murderer's fen- 

That such — that such can be !" 

"Poor girl — sweet woman lost so soon — 
Born — breathing till summer's hour — 

Then killed — to never know love's boon 
Nor kiss thy body's flower!" 

"Such is the world — in wealth 'tis well — 

When sad misfortunes come, 
Then is life but a despairing hell — 
x Young beauties seek their tomb !" 

"Oh ! take that lily blossom away ! 

Yet honor her with a grave — 
Such beauty body in nude array — 

Ah ! none, at ! none could save ! 



P o e m s 337 

"Yet well for the wave that kept afloat 

Her marvel-mould in bloom — 
And let us take her in our boat 

To build for her a tomb !" 

"Let tender flowers fall on her form — 
Let them sweet drape her clay — 

Then lay her away — far from world's storm, 
Her soul soars in fairer day !" 

White lily life oft' dies in summer-hours — 
There are yet cruel, inhuman hearts of stone ! 

He thought that ere she be in Vice's powers 
'Tis better to die — than live for lust alone ! 

(April 10, 1892.) 



IS THE GODLY AMONG MANKIND? 

As to a Christ I walked the worldly streets, 

Wishing to be affectionate to all. 

But when I met a girl, all young, yet tall, 
She barred my speech — and would not list to 

sweets. 
O if the godly were among mankind 

She would have smiled, and greeted me in 
love — 

But all her actions hatred's moods did prove, 
She had no feeling we in friendship find ! 



338 P o e m s 

The savages greet all that come their way — 
We Christians shun each other when we 

meet — 
O is the godly in us, Paraclete? 
Nay, we are worse than heathen men that pray ! 
I walked abroad among my own — but there 
I found no one with love or friendship fair ! 

(April 28, 1902.) 



RINGS. 

What lieth in a simple ring of gold? 

Yet 'tis the token of deep troth for two 

That tieth them to mateship till death sue. 
Such ring its story many a year hath told. 
There is a ring used so to seal great fold 

That none should open all its secret true. 

Then the bright jewelled rings that beauties 
imbue 
With queenliness — and them with dignity hold. 

But as the fly doth use the bee's fair girth, 

To sip the nectar of the flowers fair — 
There are in mankind beings without stint 

That use the marriage-ring — to put on air 
That they their nuptials held — when truth 

makes known : 
By it they hide their harlot-life alone ! 



P o e m s 339 



SONNET. 



She who hath gazed with lingering eyes at me 
And showed her budding bosom through 

lace, loose hung — 
Who to my eyes had tender ditties sung 
And showed herself from guile and slander 

free — 
This eve she passed with all her coquettry; 
With sweet dress, looped up in her hand — 

then came 
To me a feeling of repugnance, all aflame : 
I hated her artifice — her vanity ! 

And then methought to see her change in 
shape : 
She trudged along like some she-hell-fiend 

nude. 
I saw in her the animal coarse and rude. 
And all her lewdest nature would escape. 
Then vanished all her grace, her beauty rare : 
I saw a nude she-fiend beast-scowling there ! 



34° P o c in s 

MUSIC. 
(fragment.) 

True, true, dear Hannah — music hath charms, 
to soothe 

The pestered prey of love and passion — music 
meet 

For love's despair — to cool the fevered brain; 

And bring bright memories back, to sheen 
the state 

Of forlorn love — blighted life. Ay, mine 
Annie, my love; 

Methought the guardian angels left me griev- 
ing— 

With heart all lacerated — pulse as wild 

And weary as the madman in his dungeon- 
cell ; 

As irresponsible as the toper's, when his wrist 

Doth wrangle wildly with his throat; with 
mood 

So dejected, wan, as blight upon the sheening 
vine, 

That trails along the ruined monastery's walls. 

When but the owl hoots, and bats batter 'gainst 
the ghosts 

That haunt the debris of a hallowed dome; 

With soul that sees its own destruction near, 



P o c m s 341 

O, saddest plight ! with thoughts to God, pol- 
luted 
By converse with the nether fiends — infesting 
My mind with apostatic syllogisms ! 
O, desperate predicament — a hell on earth — 
An atrophy that quenches its thirst in longing, 
And actuates in ravenous hunger in thoughts 
Of thee ; O, Hannah, music hath fascination ; 
Such deep enchantment, as the eyes of flowery 
Apollo's sweetest virgins, when they unwimple 
Their brow 7 , and beam long curious looks — that 

pierce ! 
Methought to die ! I felt so feeble, so worn — 
Woe-struck — as febrile, as a sicklv maiden 
When by Loando's shores the sun looms high 
And thrusts its ardent lances through her curls, 
To gild her frame, and shake her as a reed. 
I mused to do away with life — to . walk no 

more — 
To bid farewell to flouting mankind — say 
Adieu to "spick and span'' society ; 
To haunt thee with my ghost — my spirit, 

flown; 
To roam the skies about, O Hannah, dear 
And lovely love, I began to ask if broods 
Of devil-hearts had swarmed about thee — flock 
Of glozing, courteous dunces lured thee on; 
And in such brunt of danger thou couldst fall 
Their dupe. Forgive — to fret is a lover's love! 



342 Poem s 

So seemed I — when this morn, by angels guid- 
ed, 
My worried fingers lost their plaints in sad, 
Sweet melody — a song upon the ivory keys 
Of Mozart's harpsichord — transcended now 
To Verdi's loud and softened pedal: name 
So inharmonious to the one its father. 
O, days of joy and coy contentment; hours 
Of cosy bliss within the pales of chaste re- 
treat ; 
When music was a link to chain the hearts 
Of each to each — and dear repose of mind 
Found hearth by melody and harmony ! 

souls of two score years now choked by 

weeds 
And worts of poisonous roots and petals — 

come 
Again to charm the homes of Adam's children 
Rejoice once more the hearts of Eve's fair 

daughters — 
Once more revive ! — Yea, Annie, in that song 

1 found consolement — for I pictured thee 

To bask and blush — and bend — and banter 

boonly — 
Rejuvenating all my heart — and shedding 

sense 
Of sweeter comfort all upon my soul. — 
Just here, love, let me tell thee what I deem 
Sweet music's lofty office be : to purge 
The unclean soul — to soothe the weary heart — 



P o e in s 343 

Unchain the manacles that gird a despot — 
To revolutionary brows, unknit 
The furrows — lovelier tie the fond affections 
Of maiden-blush to manhood's glowing glee — 
When rodent cares intrench the harassed harm 
Of blighted life — to indue with fragrant fold 
The daunted spot — when hopes are shorn and 

bare, 
To linger in fair music's halls — and listen 
And hearken — for angels are in melody — 
Inwoven — as perfume in the flower's bloom ! 
It is the sound — which being nowhere, yet 
Is present — the wonder-art to find a tone 
That vibrates with the inner fibres of man ! 
The magic-sense to call to birth a stream 
Of Aeolian sounds, that laves with conscious 

flow 
Each heart, to soothe or sadden — to joy — 

mourn. 
It is a marvel ! an emblem of a Heaven — 
A feeling that our soul is there — immortal ! 
But now its Lydian softness I shall tell ; 
Nor leave the sweetness of its song to die. 
My love ! I glided o'er the keys such strains 
That wound their sinuous serpent-wreaths 

along 
The languid-flowing stream of fantasy. — 
A dream! a soul-dream! angel-scented-grown, 
As violet-buds burst, to a dream of days 
When Elbe's muttering woe, and drowsy moan 



344 Poems 

Low-swelled to castle-heights and vineyards 

fair — 
Ancestrally endowed with kingship — made 
To win the princes' eyes, and thrill their hearts 
To live, and die within their glorious goal. 
When gently gliding by the wolds of myth 
And folk-lore mystic — even-beils had knelled 
The plaintive parting of two sister-hearts 
And pale the one — with raven tresses stream- 
ing 
Along her quivering bosom to her haunches 

rare — 
Wept silently ; — and rosed one with bleared 
And glistening orb — with yawles yet glowing 

faint — 
And praying audibly — when each their way 
So lonely went — to leave fair night remain ! 
Hast heart the distant canticles, sung low 
Upon the Rhenish waters — where the moon 
Its purpled horn oft-times within the waves, 
So passion-heaving, dips ? Hast heart the song 
Of dream-lips, swelling as some Syren-lures 
Withforth the sapphire grotts of Capri, there 
By heavy-perfumed parks, and warbling bosks 
Where fond .Lugano kneels before a sky 
Of fairy-splendour, blowing visions mellow — 
And fancies, purfled orient ; broidered glowing 
By fingers rich — fantastic — blazing softly 
To legends sweet and languid — sky of 
Heaven — 



Poems 345 

A paradise within the rays of dying sun ! 
Hast heard, through orange-gilded groves soft- 
flowing, 
Harmonious duet emulate — by Adria's bloom 
Of palace and of chatellette — when rarest 

scents 
Of garden-flowers sling, like an Indian-rain, 
Their freshness far abroad — and heave the 

songs 
With palm-land passion — ring the lark-like 

ditties 
With glow of Syrian skies : where Lebanon 
Its lute-voiced cedars proud outspreads. — Hast 

heard 
My love — my passion, all my thought — my 

life- 
Hast heard the tune of even, when o'er far 
Far spreads of oak-land wails the ocean's echo, 
While on some castled cliff the pale rose-veil 
Low-museth in the meandering breeze — and 

sighs 
Of love roll plaintive with the main's caresses 
That pitch their glimmering fingers against 

the moss- 
Flecked headland's giant-rock ! Hast heard 

the tales 
By Sharon, where the rose is guarded saintly — 
Roses garland brows of prophets, and the rose 
Is worshiped, as the rosy Ibis far, O, far 
In dream — Ethiopia's dusky wolds of palm 



346 P o e 111 s 

And tamarind, and spice-trees, blooming large ! 
Hast heard the languor in the playing ripples 
Round lotus-flowers — when they quiver in the 

sheen 
Of moon-beams, kissing Kistnah-river ! Love ! 
Hast known of sweetness in the Limat, blow- 
ing 
Canorously o'er vineyards on Ceylon, 
Where oft' the warble of the coast-birds wan- 
ders 
Within such languid breeze, that woos with it 
The sweet smell of luxuriant palace-gardens 
'Way o'er the cliffs of Malabar? O, Love? 

(Fragment) (1885) 



GREATNESS. 



"Tell me, oh Muse, what must man do to win 
The world's applause and be called great — 

tell me ! 
For I in vian have sung of God and Thee — 
And used my pen to slay the worldly sin; 
But never have I been called great as yet. 
Still, one, who sings of common men, and 

w r rites 
With no rare beauty in his phrase, delights 
The world : they call him great, and is their 
pet r 



Poems 347 

"O woe to thee, my child, the world may never 
Judge of the God-voiced one — he must be 

still— 
And sit alone upon God's glorious hill. 
He sings for high souls and for Angels ever — 
Though greater than the one the world call 

great 
Thou bearest but the God-child's wonted fate ! 

(March, 1899.) 

TO THE SCIENTISTS. 

Go, small scientist — 

You teach me nothing new — 

I'm far more happy in my faith — 
More joyous in my sky of blue 
Wherein I see the Angels play — 

I'm far more happy in my God — 
Who teaches me so pure a story 
And shines before me His Own Glory — 

More joyous be a child in merry May, 
And sing my song in praise of One 
Who made me — and this earth — all that is 
done ! 

Go, small scientist, 

You teach me nothing new — 
You tell me I'm a beast — and I'm a fool — 

Man is the seed of grovelling swine — 
You make us dunces, prone to grow a school 

Of apery — make us lengthwise whine — 



348 Poem s 

Go, small scientist, 

. I've all I want from you — 

Ay, study your own self, your inward self — 

Xot all the books upon your moulded shelf — 

Ay study glory in the soul ; the heart's array ; 

Not bones, and oil, and filthy air, and clay. 

Ay, study Nature, through your feelings all 

elate — 
Then you shall love the God ; and your own 

selves will hate ! 

(1884) 



EXTASY. 



I looked at the harvest-moon, it was waxing — 

Through the window-pane — 
And I wept — and I cried — 

For the world's offensive strain 
Made moan ! 
I gazed at the harvest-moon, it was waxing — 

Afore they said I was amad — 
They said I was too old, when Spring was in 
me — 
I was not man to wish me cool 
Beneath the flowery sod ; 
But I said naught that God would take me 
above — 
That Heaven would welcome me. 



P o e m s 349 

O, quiet was I ; inwardly prayed : "Forgive 
them." 
I went to the lone, dark room — 
To gaze at the gold harvest-moon, 'twas wax- 
ing, 
Through the window-pane : 
And I wept and cried — 

For I felt so sorry for those scorners — 
I prayed they may be spared small wrath — 
And I wept — and I cried all deeply — 

I begged that death would lenient judge. 
O, how may they, who have not felt, feel what 
the soul is — 
What bliss pervades it, oh ! beauteous bloom- 
ing! 
They laugh at those who feel elate at simple 
holiness — 
They think one mad when one is half in 
Heaven ! ! ! 

(1884) 

A HYMN. 

O, God ! Thou art wonderful — 

But Thy sting is deep — 
All Thy marvels beautiful — 
Yet Thy child doth weep — 
But lo ! it is our earthly lot to steep 
Our hearts in woe — to soothe its smart in 
sleep ! 



350 Poems 

O, how passing pure Thy Love — 

But Thy Word is strong — 
God, Thy Glory shines above — 

Here is plaint and wrong — 
But lo ! sweet nature sings a sweetened song, 
And through the May no suffering will throng. 

O, God ! Thou art marvellous — 

But Thy Law severe — 
Thou bestowest gifts on us — 
Yet we shed a tear — 
But lo ! our earthly lot is to bear from day to 

year — 
O, till we reap that death — a curse — a cheer ! 

(January 2, 1886.) 



A FRAGMENT. 

(I88 S ) 

Hence, ye vain memories — the bubbles 
Upon the hidden lake of thought-sprung 

troubles — 
Hence, .and stay ye where the weaker mind 

Low-cowers from the roar prophetical 
Of meditation's swiftest wind — 
Whose whirl-storm speed uproots the oak- 
trees hoar 



P o e m s 351 

That bear the glowing fruits philosophical ! 
Nor play about me any more ! 

Hence, ye phantom-memories — the joy 
Of hours, that toll never again their bells — 
But ever the restless striving mood annoy ! 
Dear tenants in the tainted halls of my soul — 
Vain passengers that hail me as I roll 
On waves of life through unbounded seas 
Of the infinite Infinity ! The vanities 
Of present thought — since dead — unresurrect- 

ing— 
Since past — unable gleam-future's feet direct- 
ing! 
Hence, ye vain memories — the toys 

Of virgin Urania — foam to feelings sprung 
By sudden sight of past mementos — feeble 
tongue 
Of easy-lipped Morpheus — drowsy voice 
Of Time — the languors of self-perusalling 

man — 
The being of trf has-been — the models for a 

stanza's plan — 
Hence, ye vain memories — the ease 

Of the Muse's throe — the charm of her flow- 
ing grace — 
Hence, ye memories, you no more please — 
Hide, hide — and lie at calm in your long- 
wonted place ! 
But show thy brow ! Unseen, unuttered Vis- 
ion — 



35 2 P o e m s 

Whose power is of Hell — and hath the thews 
Elysian ! 

Show up thy face, whose awe unlooses mounts 

Whose age is vaster than the sun its aeons 
counts — 

Upshow thy lofty shoulders — Atlas-strong — 

Bear truth that thou dost wage with good and 
wrong 

As Sysyphus with rocks — to unending task 
condemned — 

Arise before me in thy shrouds — with man- 
hearts hemmed — 

In all thy all-colossal size — as though the stars 

We may not see — played round thy navel- 
scars — 

And thy proud temples felt the soothing 
breathings musky 

Of Heaven's Spirits — while low in lands 
all smoked and dusky 

Thy stupendous ankles wade a-through their 
vaporous shore ! 

Thou Titan — Titan — appear — and show thee, 
musing's Conqueror ! 

Now crouch thee down — so I may touch thy 
brow — 

While winging all my thoughts with preter- 
natural speed 

To where lone Neptune, with his splendour 
and glow, 



P o e m a 353 

Doth jewel thine ear. Oh! Titan— whom our 
deep thoughts need — 

O, thou great unknown monster — Philosophy! 

Uprearing in man's minion skull Infinity! 

O, thou, whose look, pervades small man with 
awe — 

Whose speech doth tremble man's most noble 
brain — 

O, thou, uncontemplated Phantom — whose un- 
fathomed law 

Fingers to Divinity — Thou, be here — in med- 
itation's pain! 

As some imworshipped Sphinx, so tall, uptow- 

ering 
To where the zenith's fiercest storms are cow- 
ering — 
So lie, with Herculean arms, thought-folded— 
And seem the hugest Power of thought to real 

form moulded ! 
Upbear thyself, O Titan, indomitable to 

science's scanning- — 
O, Titan, brooding, steeped unfathomably in 

deepest planning — 
O, rear thyself, as domes that once loud Asa's 

world had citied — 
O, Titan, torture to the tyrants, slaying who 

are never pitied — 
Great Glory to the God-man, who through thee 

grows god-like — 



354 P o c m s 

O, Titan, thoughtful, deep Philosophy — that 

loveth live all god-like — 
Thou stand ! and muse in thy titanic mood — 
And let one lone lad in thy musings brood ! 

Thoughts bred of wombs uncircumscribed — 
invisible — 

The children to time's lightning-leisure — and 
the fruits 

Of trees — unwatered — whose strong roots felt 
soil — nor smell 

Of rotted leaves — the awe-creations of a mind, 
that shoots 

Its tools, as mystic trees their seeds — unac- 
countable ! ! 

The tower-clouds of moments untutored — like 
the mounts 

Of Termites — mite-ceatures building steeps 
unmountable ! 

The phantoms of a mood — like sheets of spray, 
above the founts 

Of boiling waters — rising — broadening, thick- 
ening — unimpeachable ! 

So aweing — confounding — till they affright 
the eye that seeth — 

The laws of spirit, from whose interminable- 
ness no mortal fleeth — 

O, thoughts bred of the joy to see God's mar- 
vels open beautiful — 

O, shed thy soothing fruitfulness upon me, in 
showers bountiful ! ! 



Poems 355 



VIGILANCE. 

Our mothers were so vigilant while we 

Lay growing, thriving in their mystic 

wombs. 
When breathing infants, we were, like the 
blooms 
That fear a blast might shake their petals free. 
In boyhood, oh! how careful that no harm 
O'ertake us ; — so in age : from illness, woe, 
We seek to free ourselves ; when locks of 
snow 
Crown us, we strive to parry death's strong 
arm ! 

Ay! life is vigilance! without it, death ! 
Life o' every occupation is stern care 
To listen to the heart's promptings every- 
where. 
Each man must guard himself; — there is no 

breath 
We take, but we are vigilant to see 
If no harm take us, so we living be ! 



356 Poem s 



WHO UNDERSTANDS GREATNESS? 



O wise philosopher write all thy wit 

Thy wisdom — all the truth thou fathomest — 
Show to the world what would bring social 
rest — 

What would slay murder — crime — oh ! every 
fit 

Of brutish tendency assailing man — ' 
Write volumes — ay one paragraph — so they 
The mass, or e'en the legislators — may 

Get benefit — and follow thy new plan. 

Write, write — the truth — oh ! given thee by 
God! 
'Tis worthless — for the multitudes are slow 
And ignorant — their hearts and bents are 
low. 
E'en legislators would find strange thy thought 
For thou philosopher did dream in Truth's far 

land — 
But not an one would thy truth understand! 

(November 5, 1893.) 



P o e m s 357 



POLYCRATES INFLUENCED BY 
ANACREON. 

Polycrates, the glorious son 

Of Aeces, who long wars had won — 

And born on Samos-isle 

Was famed for monstrous guile — 

He grew a tyrant — and led troops 

With spears, on hundred full-sailed sloops 

To conquer all those flowers 

Of Greece — that made her bowers — 

Those islands — fair to see, 

And children to glad liberty — 

Crete, Delos — Rhodes and Cos, 

Their kith so multitudinous. 

He failed — then grew his grasping mood 

Like to a sea-approaching flood — 

And cruel deeds were his — he swore 

To fight, to conquor more and more. — 

He speared his slaves — his soldiers slew — 

Till he to a monstrous tyrant grew — 

When to his court a poet came 

Born on the Teian hills — aflame 

With vines and fruits and flowers and trees. 

He sang such lovely melodies 

Of wine and love and passion soft 

That he who heard was ta'en aloft 

To peaceful regions calm and warm — 



358 P e m s 

Where never raged or wrath or storm. 

Him heard Polycrates — when lo — 

His heart's blood 'gan softly to flow — 

Anacreon soothed all his ire 

With dulcet lays of love's desire — 

With ditties, praising rubious wine — 

And odes of flowing words divine — 

That poet sang all day such strains 

One hears in Venus' lily-fanes-^- 

Or knows to sound where Eros dreams 

Where bees drone near Olympian streams — 

Those songs of love and wine had power 

To make his fierce mood fearing cower 

And sent into his blood a fire 

The sense that steals from girl-strung lyre 

It soothed him ! — and from that fair day 

Polycrates would list alway 

To songs Anacreon would sing : 

Songs live with love's low murmuring 

Like bees in summer's eventide — 

Fair lays that praised the groom and bride- 

And ditties dedicate to wine 

To Bacchus — and the anointed Nine — 

Such power soft hath lovely song ; 

It made a tyrant's fierceness strong 

Change to sweet tenderness — it saved 

Men from a tyrant's hand depraved — 

And let fair women smile again 

And virgins sing their vestal-strain — 

Anacreon fair poesy's child ! — 



Poems 359 

Thy love-songs were so sweet and mild 

So filled with flowers and Cupid's smiling 

Melodious words, all men beguiling 

That to Polycrates they showed 

A path on which sweet love-scents glowed, 

That led his tyrant's heart away 

Near love and wine and song to stay ! 

(November 8, 1893.) 

SLANDER. 

Could pain have pinnacle in sulphurous lones 

Higher than is the summit of all pain, 
Low slander ! shent upon one like hell-tones 

Vociferously clamoring amain — 
Designed talk to arouse hate, fire-like 
Fletching its flames at sensibilities 
When, kindled, rise incendious — while they 
. strike 
The tender core of love's heart like from 
skies 
Of storm the lightning's javelins ! Low say, 

Embittering the innocent — flaming his soul 
To his confession — yet all will betray 

Him, -though his life's in virtue's high con- 
trol— 
Ah ! me — who will believe the innocent 
When slanderers, like fire-flames, on him are 
bent! 

(November 10, 1893.) 



360 Poems 



DITTY. 

Music dwells in woman fair 
Whene'er I near her stay 
Quick bursts forth a liquid air 
So suited for a lay — 
Then will I often nestle close 
To woman, sweet as June-born rose ! 

When I kiss a woman sweet 

The memory spells me quite 

To play rare melodies complete 

Beethoven's own delight — 

So will my sweetest pastime prove 

To be near woman who doth love ! 

There lies music in her form 
For when I muse by her — 
The memory floodeth forth a storm 
Of lays that heavenly stir — 
So will I choose fair woman's hours — 
Bequeathing me Beethoven's powers ! 

(December 16, 1893.) 



Poems 361 

SONNET. 

(TO SHAKESPEARE.) 

As one who loiters on some flower-field 

He plucks the blooms, unwitting who had 

made 
Their colors rare — the hues — their tint — 
their shade — 
At once he recognizes who could yield 
Such store of riches — of creations fair — 
So while perusing lines of verse unsigned 
Their wondrous diction made that I devined 
Their spell-sounds were of poetry's greatest 
heir! 

How well thou writest, William, song's own 
child ! 
In thy rare verse flows wine from god-cups 

rich — 
From sun-gods — or from magian, or strange 
witch 
Thou drankest potions so thy songs be wild 
Or softly tuned, as even in April-days 
The spring-kissed breeze glides through lone 
woodland-ways ! 



362 Poems 



MUSIC IS VAPOROUS. 

Only the soul is sentient of true music — ' 
Like love spiritual — or like thought ideal. 
So music is like lispings, low and leal, 
Man lifts out from his soul to his love-woman. 
Who scale Beethoven's thoughts, or Chopin's 
wailing — 
Only most sensitive fair natures can. 
As thought and mood in us, so music's 
plan — 
Both are unseen — both are like air or cloud- 
life! 

Music is like soft vapors in the sky, 

We listen to its tones — but then they die — 

As vapors in faint space slow r -melted are ; — - 
And melodies, if not immortalized 

At once — as painters, with rare clouds afar — 
They vanish from our mind, that them had 
prized ! 



P o c in s 363 

WOOING A VIRGIN. 

Softly — gently — to a virgin do; 

Time is power her rosy kiss to woo, — 

No man wins if he doth tire ; 

Time alone crowns our desire. 

Softly tread — 

When thou wouldst to kiss a virgin's head! 

• Weeks it takes to woo the flower ; 
Spring's not blooming in an hour — 
But who heard that sun of Spring despairs 
When not quickly melt the frosty airs! 
Time will do it — 
So despair not, when her kiss you woo it ! 

Softly — gently — o'er a virgin bend — 

Time will let thy lips with her own blend — 

Man can never win a virgin's kiss 

In a moment — nor sweet touching's bliss — 

Gently go — 

Till thy soft tread reap her willing glow ! 

TO A YOUNG GIRL. 

Her fair cheek-color vies 

With the roses at her breast, 
And the sparkles in her eyes 

Are two stars, aft' the sun hath gone to rest. 



364 P o e m s 



TO A SWEET MAIDEN'S EYES. 

Whene'er thy lids are upward drawn — 
Methinks to dream of Spring's rose-dawn — 
For in thy rosy features fair — 
When I do smile — two violets blossom there! 



FANCY'S CONCEPTION OF GENIUS. 

TO PADEREWSKI. 

While Paderewski's humid facile fingers 
Poised o'er the keys, as snow-hawks in mid- 
air — 
Or danced above them, as the bubbles fair 
Foam on the fall-pool's face, where Aegle lin- 
gers — 
Or thundered, till both hands were lost in 
haze — 
It came to me, as did the theme, he played, 
Burst in Beethoven's soul : some are arrayed 
With powers that others show save in dream's 
maze I 



Poems 365 

Oft', oft 1 , in dreams, I swayed the piano's keys 
As Paderewski doth — but when day blooms 
A dilettante I — my efforts are their tombs. 
To some lone men for supernatural powers. 
To some lone men for supernatural powers 
A genius' wonders are the Dream-god's 
dowers! 



MY EPITAPH. 



Come, Muse, and Pao, and Euterpe fair! 

Three sisters dear to me till my last day — 

From this hour forth I know my sad dismay 
To be all unrewarded ; and despair 
Must cling to me through years of loneliness ! 

'Tis strange but true, the greatest giant-mind 

Can never any recognition find ; 
He, like great Homer, lives in lone distress ! 

I see those low one-sided men be praised — 
Those who perform one art — untutored still 
In any other ; they the world can fill 
With wonderment — so be ye all amazed : 
Unknown am I who loves ye three so well — 
Who is seven-souled — and works by hidden 
spell ! 

(March, 1899.) 



366 Poems 



THE WATERSNAKE SPEAKS. 

Coiled on the nether willow-boughs, I look — 
Watchful for newt, or fish — spider, or fly; 
But when I hear a human step pass by — 

Sudden I fall into the stone- jammed brook, 

And vanish in my hole, by him unseen; 
Then I glide to my kind by touchmenots 
That hide from view the twigs, and logs, 
where rots 

The debris under summer's beautifying green. 

There summer we among the tortuousities 
Of root, branches, and brooklet-willows low ; 
There none may see us, for our colors show 
As do the stones and leaves ; but when one 

pries 
Into our lair — then we have fangs that kill — 
While we live by the brook's weird bank so 
still ! 



Poems 367 



FADED FLOWERS. 

Faded flowers ; 
Short spent hours — 
Withered leaves and petals grey : 
Lost their bloom within a short-lived day ! 
Given me by doubting hands, 

Fingers trembling in sweet girlyhood — 
When upon the distant river-strands 
Gazed we, from a sloping oaken-wood ! 

O eyes, that found those wild field-flowers — 
Flowers freshening in June's transient show- 
ers — 
Flowers blowing with the cadenced breeze 

Flowers bringing troubled heart and soul, 
Mild-toned tinklings, deft surcease. 

Flowers, bringing, with a captious toll, 
To the Hymen-dance a liveliness, 

Such, when merry bells run round 

O'er a wavy blossoming ground, 
When May sings in her brindiest dress ! 

Flowers waiting for the maiden's touch — 
Maiden whom a wheedling tongue 

Had promised bliss, had hawed much, 
To praise her ever rosy-young! 

Flowers flashed for fair Briseis. 
Flowers skied for Berenice lorn — 



368 P o e m s 

Flowers golden-eboned, where a glee is 
As the bird's song o'er morning borne ! 

Flowers that a Phillis once had wreathed 
For a crown — and, in erubescence, breathed 

Her nubile innocence to Cory don, 
Whom Thrysis wished for her alone. 

Flowers in their gairish bloom attired, 
Whom the elfins, at their sable hour, 

With their apt attendants hired — 
Hired to light their airy bower — 

For they left pale lustre on 
The moon-impinged jonquil-crown ! 

O eyes, that sought, with youthful glow 
Those sweeter thoughts that adolescent dreams 

Not yet could know — 
O tempting orbs, with slavish beams 
To eagerness of an envious mind 
Those woman-wiles within the heart to find ; 
When still in moody meekness, all unknown, 
They flourish, waiting for their mulier's 

crown ! 
O hazel uveas, urvant hazel-songs — 
Soft sylab'ling the unfelt throngs 
That are weaned from a breast 
Short-matured to an amorous zest 
Of desire yet budded in its pink — 
O eyes, the reflex of a Houri-gaze ; — 
Sun-glowed sparkle on some fickle w T ink, 
That doth from Mylitta's laughter dart — 



P o e m s 369 

Where the scenting Damajavag's maze 

Soothes the cyprian Ethiop's heart! 

O eyes, the nut-brown morn to noon of jet — 

Innocent pierce of maiden-wile — 

Beaming, winning, fiercer than the pet 

Of gay Anthony, when Alexandra's pride 

Was pomp and loud-voiced holocausts — and 

bride 
And lover wedded in a golden-bloomed exile! 
Eyes, beads of Hiawatha's umbrate locks — 
Laugh-echoes of that trill that mocks 
The lolling doe upon some hidden mat 
Where oft', in love-thoughts, Aegle sat. . 
Eyes, sparkle on the bethel-orb, when not 
Its dreamy wine could meander through a 

thought. 
Eyes, in maid's alacrity — 
Where no deeper sorrow beameth nigh — 
Of the babling stream a drop, 
Bedewing the brown cat-tail's bended top. 
Eyes, O eyes that grow ! in beauty-dreams 
Their days enjoy ! O eyes where never themes 
Of a story dwelt — or modulations sweet 
Their classics wove, with life replete ! 
You young brown eyes ; staring in an air - 
Where the mirroring pools no swollen trees 
Yet wed — mere tender stems of flowers fair — 
Mere enticements that the maidens please. 
Eyes, in innocent pertness, as the spray 
Of the jasmine, where it scents the day, 



370 P o c m s 

Upborne ! delving, with mattock untoothed, 
The inner mines of man. O eyes, you soothed 
When to those flowers glancing, with their 

scent, 
Your far rays within my look were pent ! 



Faded flowers, 
Short spent hours ! 

Flowers culled upon the sheldy mead — 
Where the kine, the sheep, and hoven steed 
Their lazy limbs beguile in grazing pace. 
Flowers culled by the fast flowing race 
That its swiftness to the mill propels, 
Where the grain to whitest hillocks swells. 
Flowers broken by the jocund-tuned hill-side, 
Where the sumack glows ; the brambles wide, 
Their savory jet-fruit sprinkle generous — 
Where the strawberries in rubicundest smile 
Fair strayers with their lusher fruits beguile — 
Where the red bird-berries bunch profuse — 
And the mulleins tall their torches trim. 
For the autumn, when glow-eves grow dim. 
Flowers culled by fences fallen fantasticTy — 
Where the vines please to be twining free ; 
Where the saplings bend — the bushes burst — 
Where a spring purls, for the birdling's thirst. 
Flowers culled by the margin of the pool 
Where at star-time flies the winged ghool. 
Flowers such that ever Estelle had bound 



P o e m s . 371 

With gayest bands — when her dear shepherd 

found 
Her lying on the chequered lawn; exiled 
From home and field, till he again had smiled. 
Flowers as once she on Enna's meads 
Close to the singing, slender reeds, 
Stooping culled — when, sudden, the black sin 
All before her mumped — and her did win 
To ever be once rapture, then repulsion cold — 
Alternate life and death, in Nature old! 
Flowers beckoning to their soggy, slender 

friends, 
Where oft', at eve, the antlered forehead bends 
Slaking thirst; O, such that nestle fond 
In families around some bracken-pond; 
Where, at morn, bright lizards sparkle on a 

stone, 
Serpents glide where late the moon had shone. 
Flowers blooming where the rindle curves — 
And with many a sally swerves 
Withround the mossy rock — that gives 
Shelter for a gudgeon, that so lonely lives ! 
Flowers torn by the swift water-course— 
Flowering through the languished meadow- 
grass. 
And the whip-por-will wants to be heard — 
Sorrowful its cadence ; where it stirred 
There the leaves sigh, and the branches swing 
To a weird strain full of sorrowing. 



Ttf2 P C 111 S 

Flowers whose boon fragrance through the 

pines 
In alley-shadows wreathing twines. 
Flowers whose gay colors brighten the glen, 
Where sing the oriole, the thrush and wren. 
Flowers, when the morning bringeth love 
Shed a splendrous freshness o'er the grove. 
When the planet through the reddening clouds 
Its far attendant prompts to shine — 
Such flowers glimmer in the gloaming's 

shrouds — 
Weary-pendent o'er some long forsaken shrine ! 
Flowers, when the moon doth burst the flood- 
ing sky, 
To tremble the grey river, and the eagle high — 
Sheen in scarlet, such as Nara presses, 
'Gainst her bosom when one caresses ! 
Flowers waving as the grain on river-isles 
When June doth wheedle with her wanton 

smiles, 
Such as on some pond by Madagascar lone 
Gold-spot the blooms of darkest roan ! 
Flow r ers weeping way by hilly source, 
Where wide oaks keep cool the living glass. 
Flowers such that Rachel, through the corn, 
Plucked, her swain so virtuous to adorn. 
Flowers floating on the silent bosom bright 
Of a lake— the solace to the kite; 
Where in lambient swiftness he espies 
A fish — spatters — then more swiftly flies ! 



P o e m s 373 

Flowers peeping through some ferny roof 
Netted with the spider's miraculous woof. 
Where the rare war-beetle, and the horned 

leaf-chafer, 
In battle move — to squabble all the safer! 
Where in crevices scale-insects nit — 
So small, that breezes ne'er their cradles hit. 

All those flowers now are faded, 
Given me by doubting hands — 
While we gazed o'er river-lands 
From a hill, the wind pervaded 
With the lays of flowers and skies — 
O her brown, deep, girly eyes ! 
Faded flowers — 
Short spent hours. 

Milford, Pa. (1886). 



FORGETFULNESS. 



Thou blessing to the multi-mooded mind — 
Thou boon to those in woe, forgetfulness — ■ 
Soft-screening hours of dark and dire dis- 
tress — 

Kind waft to sorrow, like a May-loved wind! 



374 Poems 

Oh ! were it not for thee, how could we bear 
Those periods of pain or saddened hours 
That come to all like fire-filled showers 

Belched from volcanoes in the midnight-air! 

For weeks I lay in illness' grasp, forlorn — 
My mind was like a woodland cavern drear, 
Seeming for aye to live less laughter's cheer, 
But when all healed — a sudden light was born, 
The dark, dark hours were all forgotten then — 
And, like soft May, life burgeoned sweet 



again ! 



(1904) 



MEMORIES. 



Elusive film of last day's pleasure! 

With tints of amaranth o'ershed, 
To thee this sweet, voluptuous measure 

To memorate the passion-bed. 
And why not weave fair evening hues 
Around the pureness of dear loving thews- 
All it needs are colors true 
The passion with pigments to indue. 

It seems a gauze yet round me moves 
Of memories of short-spent bliss : 

The pressure long of a mouth that loves; 
The long-lipped — heart-felt kiss. 



P o e m s 375 

And in this gauze my thoughts are drowned, 
Thinking of how my hours sweet were 

crowned 
By feeling all the bashful signs 
Of love-lost maid who me entwines. 

Rapt fragrance floats around me yet : 
Her kiss, so long and deep — I feel ; 
Yet lingers in me one regret 

That all so short-lived was that seal. 
Why not a praise to passion clean 
When deep and loving pleasure is between ! 
With halcyon song all passion is pure — 
Long, long — till age may it endure ! 



QUESTION. 



Are ye the same, dear stars, O constant stars ! 

The same as when I stood alone — 
With outstretched arms, imploring you to be 

My only consolation ! 
When all my hours had breathed love's mis- 
ery — 
And in my heart, love's plaintive wars 
Grew thick with desperate sigh, and deathly 
moan. 



3/6 Poems 

Ye are the same, O stars ! O living stars ! 

But I am altered these five years. 
I gaze toward ye, with deep thoughts of aye — 

My thinking hath full wider spheres — 
Despair hath turned to resignation high 

And, in my heart, love's plaintive wars 
Subsided, knowing of life's patient peers. 

Oh, musing thus, O light doth stream within 
My soul, and telleth me new T lore : 

Immutable are Nature's laws, while man 
Doth change his thoughts from door to 
door! 

Ye stars are aye the same — and Nature's plan ; 
But we do grow, with bliss and sin, 

To stranger souls, some Heaven-like the more ! 

We grow in soul, while Venus ever shines 
The same, in shape and brilliancy. 

The universe is like in aeons ago — 

But changing in our thoughts are we. 

Thus telling that w r e for new regions grow, 
Where happiness fore'er reclines — 

And where our souls may live more blissfully ! 

On, on, then, soul ! with Seraph-wings ahead ! 

Fly onward to high life's true goal. 
Heed not the cry of mortal men that stay 

Upon this earth to shirk their soul — 



Poems 377 

Fly till the realms will shine — and Seraph-lay 

Will sound so sweetly clear instead. 
Till in the venture thou'lt have Heaven's 
Scroll! 

Ye are the same, O stars ! oh ! living stars ! 

But I am altered — grown more wise. 
God's Work lies like it was of yore — 

That highest souls should recognize 
His Wonders, He has given Nature's store 

To all alike. — Oh ! no one mars 
Soul's upward flight, save those who God de- 



spise ! 



San Diego, Cal. (1889) 



DURING A RAIN-STORM. 



Hast thou ever heard the rain 

Streaming down in wildest menace — 
Stamping on the tender lane — 
With swift cruel feet, to harass 
The feeble blades of lulled grass ! 

Hast thou ever heard the rain 

Plunging headlong from the heaven — 
Drowning downy heads of grain — 
As though the stream, by Neptune driven, 
Were doomed the earth's thick crust to pass ! 



378 Poems 

Hast thou ever heard the rain 

Splashing o'er the roads, as war-bound — 
Clashing all its barbarous strain 
Discordant to the windling, star-bound — 
When singing, murmurous, to the Night! 



SHORT RECOLLECTION OF MY HOME: 
LAUREL HILL. 

I remember the walk that leads from the house 

Stately mansion that sees the distant blue hills. 

I the walk now with happy thought recollect 

Leading upward through beds of flowers so 
full; 

Winding 'longside the lines of roses and pinks ! 

Greeting there the red Dahlia, proud of its 
weight ; 

Now geraniums, red, and pink, and so white; 

There the aster, the waif of stars in their 
wrath ! 

Sweet and tender white lily, charm of the bed, 

Not forgetting the tulip, nodding in glow ! 

Nor the four-o'clock-flower, watchful of time ! 

Too Clematis, deceitfully clamb'ring, cunning- 
ly sweet ! 

Fuchsia, in such scarlet robe, and abloom. 

Many flowerless growths in bright green at- 
tire, 



P o c m s 379 

Shed their light on the fairy-hall of the beds ! 

"Fare ye well !" cries the walk to all the fair 
charms. 

Steps run upward, inviting farther proceed. 

Few there are. On each side a statue stands 
firm — 

There a Milo, and there the Goddess of Chase. 

Each in Grecian splendor, they beckon to sky, 

And enhance the long terrace, bright and in 
bloom. 

Poppies red, and awaving breezily their stems, 

Glow amidst a profusion, gawdy yet fair, 

Such as garden egregious only allures. 

Sentinel, the acacia, lovingly smiles ! 

Birds on branches, they bathe in sweetest per- 
fumes ! 

Sing a tune all the day, a praise at the dawn! 

Ere your foot be arrested by stony broad steps, 

Pebbly paths go diverging — right, and to left; 

Losing far in the distance shape and brown 
hue. 

Hail to Hermes, Apollo, gods of soft Greece — 

Vainly seeking Olympus, dales of their home ! 

Staring, stricken by landscape strange and so 
bleak, 

In oblivion's land, so distant, so large ! 

Still, they fill the high soul with reverent awe, 

As they stand on green pedestals, floweret- 
cast! 

Shining rays of the sun ennobling their look ! 



380 P o e in s 

Broadly spreads the imperishable path with its 

charm. 
Both its borders are hallowed with firs and 

with pines : 
Firs, that looking to Heaven, proudly look 

round, 
Like the spread of the eagle's wings, in the 

sky. 
Firs whose shade leads to dreamland's cot and 

soft dell — 
Where the breezes melodious heart-songs out- 
pour : 
Sighing, smiling, and rippling through 

branches, atune ! 
Gently moaning, now wrathful mutterings 

flow. 
Till anon, the same harmony's sung through 

the firs, 
Bringing rapture to happy dreamer ashade. 
Pines their resinous fumes salubriously waft. 
To the visitor cherishing the dear spot : 
Breathing pure and perfumed air all aglow. 
Charmed by medleys from winged songsters 

aplay ! 
In the mellow gray shade a rustic low-bench 
Beckons : "Welcome, you dreamer ! love my 

retreat !" 
Oft' have I, in the lowly Sabbath-morn's reign, 
Sat there, dreaming, and praising Nature, in 

prayer ! 



P o e m s 381 

Lonely 'twas; still the thoughts, that dwell in 

the halls 
Nature gilds with the essence, Worship but 

hails, 
They are born of the soul — whose shining but 

needs 
Solitude — and Almighty glow on His Day ! 
Oft' when toilsome, long day did smilingly 

nod, 
I, enraptured, did fly to retreat of my joy — 
There in extasy mused, with innocent thought, 
What would next be the lot of days yet to 

come; 
What should hail me, poor soul, with bounds 

of frail hope, 
When the days of my glory shine for me 

bright. 
Shadows long; or the tinkling, welcome soft 

bell 
Made me ask the low bench : "When next shall 

we meet?" 
Walk of innocent days of youth! be the joy — 
Rapture, troubled long days but hail in their 

grief ! 
Be the breezy, soft consolation in hours, 
When discouraged I stand — impotent of will! 
Be the ensign in moments temptations assail — 
Be immortal in memory mine, to the last! 

Ithaca (1883). 



382 Poems 



IN NATURE DWELLS CONTENTMENT. 

This morn, along the river, I was walking — 
Slozv through the jungles, flower-blesst. 

Away from slander, and old women's talking, 
For Nature-knowledge pure in quest: 

Oh ! there I heard the shallow river flow 

Over low stones to where 
The deep-red oxen, toward even, go 

To soothe their even-fare. 
And all the winds of north did blow 

And shook the phloxes there 
And let the nesting birdlings know 

That they this eve could pair! 
Upon the fork of two injoining boughs, 

I sat me, o'er the river's flow — 
Across : was such a nook for lagging cows ; 

A mooring beach, where birches grow. 
Oh ! there I listened to the singing trees — 

The babble of the bushes heard — 
Oh ! there fond Nature's sooths and mysteries 

Upheld the truths of Spirit's Word ! 
Then through the swale-lands pushed my way, 

Where vines ; and flowers various-bloomed ; 
And tangled boughs ; and graceful trees held 
sway. 

And all a fairy-wild assumed. 



Poems 383 

Upon a tangling plant I found a nest ; 

Four eggs lay in it — where was she 
Who laid them — had I then disturbed her rest. 

Oh ! bird forgive ! I frightened thee ! 
But there ! she whistles on the button-bush ; 
( She's browm, spotted as her eggs. 
O happy bird — here there's a lasting hush — 

Thou drinkest wine without the dregs ! 
Such tall pink-flowered weeds — such golden 
flowers, 

Fair Touch-Me-Nots, and starry wild 
Clematis, fragrant as fair Krishna's bowers — 

And many blooms fit for a child 
As wreath to wear, made beautiful the swale ! 

All in the music of the stream 
Oh ! there are never heard a moan or wail — 

But dreams, spun to a lovelier dream ! 

And to this jungle wild, along the whispering 
river — 
/ lingered, meditating on our life: 
Hon' few delight in Nature — all their thoughts 
are ever 
Brimmed with their pelf, thus leading them 
to strife I 

Delaware River. 



384 Poems 



WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will — 
The western star shines diamond-bright — 
The western sky strews silver-light. 

Whip-poor-will — 
The wary mounts are dark, and drear — 
The tree-tops ghastly skyward leer ! 

Whip-poor-will. 

Whip-poor-will — 

The brook dreams drearly even-dreams. 

The star-beams through the forest streams- 
Whip-poor-will — 

The reflex of its glitter glides down — 

As though it bathed in wateVs brown. 
Whip-poor-will. * 

Whip-poor-will — 
The graceful elm-trees' trembling leaves 
Waft lullabies low to golden sheaves — 

Whip-poor-will — 
The wind-waved reeds are rustling shrill — 
The bittern sleeps, the hern is still — 

Whip-poor-will. 

Whip-poor-will — 
The peaks are pitch — the trees loom back- 



Poems 3^5 

The vale is veiled in raiments black — 

Whip-poor-will — 
The western star chaunts cheerly now — 
The heavens shine pale in starlight glow — 

Whip-poor-will. 

Whip-poor-will — 
The mires gleam faint with flickering fires 
The toad draws out his song that tires — 

Whip-poor-will — 
The raven is perched on a phantom-tree — 
The wood-birds wander through the copses 
free. 

Whip-poor-will. 

Whip-poor-will — 
The sallow light in a window far, 
Flickers as some weird prophetic star — 

Whip-poor-will — 
The echoing tread of a wanderer lone 
Now dies — and fear with it has flown ! 

Whip-poor-will. 

Whip-poor-will — 
Then thou, mysterious bird of gloom, 
Dost strike thy call, a whisper of Doom — 

Whip-poor-will — 
And all the blackness of the night 
Rings with a mournful, sad delight ! 

Whip-poor-will. 



386 P o e m s 

Whip-poor-will — 
From hill to vale, thy call doth wander — 
While brooding night doth dream and pon- 
der — 

Whip-poor-will — 
And where thou, gloomy bird, hadst called — 
That black space is by gloom enthralled ! 
Whip-poor-will. 
» Adirondacks (1883) 



IN REPLY TO: 
"THE DESIRE OF NATIONS." 

(A Poem by Edwin M , published in a New York 

Daily. I sent the following to said Daily in reply, but 
the editor returned it to me.) 

O Poet, glorious seems thy prophesy — 
Thy song, that, clarion-clear, doth try to free 
This sordid world from all that's low and 

wrong — 
To purge from vice and pelf the trodden 

throng — 
'Tis a delusion — for never will the world 
See once the Flag of Brotherhood unfurled. 
Fair Brother-Singer, in thy song doth dwell 
The spirit of the One who thou dost dream 



P o e m s 387 

Will guide the world — and make all mortals 

seem 
Like Seraphs strong, crowned with fair aspho- 
del. 
For lo ! all poets have the vision fair — 
All poets had the light divine and rare — 
All poets to be born will sing the song, 
That fills all noble souls, to right the wrong. 
He, he of whom thy song thrills through and 

through — 
He has been in the world — is here, and will 
Be in the hamlets, towns and valleys still, — 
A Soul, of whom the proud world nothing 

knew ! 
All great good men born in each century 
Reaped but the world's neglect and mockery. 
See, Christ, He gave the laws for Brother- 
hood — 
The world mocked Him ; He reaped a vilest 

death. 
See Milton, he was all divine — and good — 
But no one gave to him the laurel-wreath. 
And how was Wordsworth ridiculed through 

life— 
His mission was to lessen woes and strife. 
There Shelley, a Seraph strayed from Heaven's 

spheres, 
He taught men how to live the godly day — 
He was exiled — and reaped the world's low 
jeers — 



388 Poems 

He who had sung the sweetest, loftiest lay ! 
See, Luther, giant-soul, whose deeds were 

high, 
Could not subdue the Pope's vast tyranny. 
It seems this world can never glow in light — 
The vaunted millenium is not for earth — 
The multitudes will never find the Right. 
The world is ruled by gold's almighty worth ! 
Therefore be disillusioned as I'm now : — 
We poets live and sing — God is our theme — 
We rarely reap a wreath to crown. our brow 
While singing here ; but we have cleared the 

Dream 
Of Life and Death.; and all we prophets earn 
Is mockery from the crowds, who ne'er dis- 
cern 
That whom they laughed at was God's fairest 

child— 
A soul that sang to all so they should rise 
To lives of peace, by truest Love beguiled, 
Fit denizens for worlds beyond earth's skies! 

O oft' upon the flower-scented crest 
Of some vale-hill I've sat, when in the west 
The last bright light shot up within the gloom, 
x\nd there I dreamed, like Moses, of the doom 
Of man, and all the wretchedness and woe 
That must, and will forever be, his lot. 
And there, like he, who saw Jehovah's glow, 
When he on Sinai's rocks sat in deep thought, 



P o e m s 389 

Awaiting counsel from the Voice, I heard 
Within my soul prophetic word and word : 
"Forego to muse of woe and pelf and sin — 
Thou hast the master-song of God within. 
He made the worlds, and peopled them full 

well, 
Each life hath gifts for it most suitable. 
Upon the earth, that is thy dwelling now, 
Contented be with what thou doest there. 
Grieve not that in the wilds the savage-brow 
Can never feel the thrill of visions fair. 
Nor that in cities great so many weep 
For want of food or that the tyrants keep 
Them far from knowledge or from pleasure's 

glow. 
He made all ; be content that in thy soul 
The billows of celestial song do roll — 
That Angels to thy mind Heaven's marvels 

show. 
Those others who can fathom not thy mind — 
They need not feel the song in vernal wind — 
Their life is bounded yet ; some clay He'll free 
Them of their earthliness and vanity. 
Four elements He made, to build His realm : 
Earth, water, air, and fire. To these all lives 
Are subject — and in man their natures whelm, 
Each element a special nature gives. 
And no new law can change what He has 

made. 
So all thou seest, wrong or woe, is well — - 



390 Poems 

Care not, He never ceases, by hidden spell, 
T' adjust the woe, that doth the world pervade. 
Live thou thy life — thou hast the song divine — 
Thy brothers live their life in pleasures vain — 
They seek for wealth, intent on show and 

gain- 
While others all His gifts to them decline ; 
And they deny Him. Sing thy song — sing on, 
It pleases Him ; and though the world doth 

shun 
To know thy songs that praise Him evermore, 
Care not, thou sangest from thy heart's deep 

core — 
Some day thy song will cheer some sorrow- 
laden, 
When thou art fled to Him in realms of 

Aiden !" 
Such words were wafted to me by a spirit 
On those calm evenings, when I sat alone — 
And, since, I weep not when the world doth 

groan — 
For each his own deserts will once inherit. 
We reap what we have sown. But God is kind 
And lets the evil-doers atonement find 
By letting them live through this world again 
Till they the charms of righteous life attain. 
All poets great are crimeless — fair of soul — 
We sing of Brotherhood, but find it not. 
For we have in us all the glorious thought 
That those in Heaven have — the poet's goal ! 



Poems 391 

So Brother Poet ! sing again thy song — 
But sing not that thou dost await the day 
When One will govern all the trodden throng : 
'Twill never be — for Him the world would 

slay 
As Christ was crucified ; as Luther great 
Was banished, almost killed by his own 

friends. 
For Mammon, Tyranny, insatiate 
Will reign supreme till this world's history 

ends. 

(1899) 

LILIANS EYES. 

O Maid of Erin, lovely are thine eyes ; 

There are no others that match thine own : 
So large, so soft, in whose blue depths there 
lies 
The tenderness, from affection flown. 

O violet-eyes, o'er whom diffuses 
The mellow breath of the love-Muses ! 
So soft a veil of something, none can feel, 
Lies o'er thine eyes — what doth such veil re- 
veal? 

O Maid of Erin, summers seventeen 
Have seen thee grow to beauty-hood. 

Thy wavy shape is Dryad-fair; I ween 
Thy heart is true; thou art all-good. 



39 2 P o e m s 

But thine eyes, they spell me so to dream- 
ing— 
For in their softness there's a gleaming 
Of Angel-faces we shall see in other spheres — 
A something veils them soft, that all my love 
endears. 

O Maid of Erin, and thy body seems, 

As though I held a velvet clay — 
So yielding like a polyp, where Nereus dreams ; 
I can not from thy form away. 

O thou wert dowered with Angel-softness, 
Thou art not like thy beauteous sisters, 
Lilian ! 
Thy clay hath Angel-beauty — and thine eyes 
Have softness o'er them laid, as film on violet- 
skies. 

O Maid of Erin, misty are thine eyes — 

Thy violet-eyes, with lash embrowned : 
So large, where o'er a soft veil lies, 
As dusk o'er all the dream-profound. 
O violet-eyes, o'er whom diffuses 
The mellow breath of the love-Muses, 
What makes them seem so dreamy, beautiful — 
That they enspell me, all my soul to dreaming 
lull ! 



Poems 393 



UNE MELODIE. 

De l'amour pur que reste-il aujourd'hui? 
Les filles n'ont plus un coeur 
Comme autrefois. 
Elles se delaissent dans un malsain puits — 
D'un homme honnete elles ont peur — 
Quel honteux choix ! 
Mais le plaisir leur plaisent, et l'argent 
Vaut mieux qu'un coeur de feu ardent ! 

Fillettes ! pourquoi dansez vous 
Antour du dieu que Mammon aime? 
Oh ! que les jours reviennent quand tous 
Les homines eurent leurs amours sans bleme ! 

Oh ! y a-t-il encore des coeurs qui battent 
Ne que pour l'amour profond — 
L'exstase divine? 
La belle nature existe ; les cieux constattent 
Encore les merveilles sans fond — 
La verdoyante colline — 
Mais jamais je ne vois les yeux d'une fille 
S'animer quand dans un coeur la passion brille ! 



394 Poem s 



SONG. 

Ah me ! where are my friends of olden days ? 

Those souls that used to dream with me — 
Who seemed to show for me affection's rays — 

And tried to speak sincerity? 
They are no more ; tho' many still are living — 
Far, far away they are — no friendship giving ! 

One girl, who asked me be her husband true — 

She never wrote, these five long years. 
And all my olden "chums" have left me rue ; 

For ten years now I've known but tears. 
Ah ! where are they ? No voice doth rise to 

tell me ; 
Their silence palls on me — what tremors spell 
me ! 

Oh ! are they flown to worlds beyond the tomb ? 

Or, living, have they all forgotten me? 
I still keep in my heart their friendship's 
bloom. 
Still see them when in reverie ! 
But oh ! their loss starts tears within me, 

lonely ! 
Must earthly friendship last a brief time only? 



P o cm s 395 

RECOLLECTION. 

Thick-embowered by century-vines — 
Where the mount-brook like an agate shines — 
The bluebird flitting momently — 
And sounds so faint the drone of passing 

bee, 
The purl of waters gliding o'er the moss — 
The rustle in tree-tops as the breezes cross — 
Oh ! there we sat, deep-musing ; while her eyes 
Bespoke her fond affection's exstasies ! 
"Why don't you marry me?" 

"I loved one years ago ; none is her peer !" 
Xhen kissed, and fondled we — 
All by the sparkling brook so near. 
We kissed and fondled long by the brooklet's 

bower — 
She, saddened ; I, recalling my fair long-lost 
flower ! 

Wild flapping veil that shrouds our life — 
Rent into shreds when hellows strife — 
Now with its whirling folds it blinds 
Our eyes ; then with its threads it binds 
Our destiny — till we see all awry — 
And know not how to lift or bend our brow. 
Oh ! she had love for me that woodland-day — 
And she I loved long past had no love-word to 
say! 



396 Poems 



REVERIE. 

How futile is the comment critics use 

That always shows the thorn, but hides the 

rose — 
When will they once for always choose 

The juster way : to praise what splendrous 

glows ! 
For be it known that not a man's great work 

is free 
From blemishes — if so, we all would God-like 

be! 

Aye, show to me a perfect work, sustained — 
Some short, sweet lyrics may be so — but 
where 
Was wrought perfection when the song con- 
tained 
Dramatic action, as in Milton's epic fair? 
Shakespeare, aye Homer, in their giant songs 

oft strayed 
From fair perfection, and weighty, maudlin 

errors made ! 
So, you, who would meek judgment give, be 
more 
Atune to praise ; leave censure alone — 
Content yourself that he wrote from heart's 
core, 
And not with artifice soiled poesy's throne. 



P o e m s 397 

The sweetest rose-bush grows with thorns be- 
neath its leaves — 

The greatest epic has its faults — and Perfec- 
tion grieves ! 



NEW YORK. 

(I905) 

Thou godless Monster ! pounding day and 

night 
Thy stone-paws ; merciless to man and beast, 
Thou soundest forth thy clangs and yells at 

will! 
Who gave thee birth? Thou, browless, shape- 
less, tramplest 
On all ; thy breath infects each mortal, till each 

soul 
Hath lost its fellowship with humanity. 
Thou art demoniac; caring naught for pity, 
But thinking of new victims. Rich and poor 
Thou scourgest with thy all-relentless greed, 
Putting to ground ideals. From over-seas 
Come countless men, and women, children 

frail ; 
They cower in thy greedy paw r s, and, glad 
To know they all are tainted with some crime, 



398 Poems 

Some ill-repute — thou carest not if they 
Infect thy true-born kind; thou roarest then, 
For thro' the streets those hell-fiends roam at 

large ; 
And murder menaces the good ; and vice 
Is teacher of thine offspring ; dishonesty 
Sits victor over honor ; love lies dead ! 



SADNESS. 

Ah ! God is sad ! Hath He not placed in those 
That wield the brushes or the chisel's point 
The power to portray saddest faces fair — 
That have within their eyes a languorous woe 
A sad woe, something more remote than 

tears — 
Something that hints at spells in higher 

worlds ! 
And who but God inspired them to thrill 
Their work with touches of rare sadness deep 
That seems as if God was so sad when He 
Put life upon this earth — yet was astounded 
When after moments — death, usurped His 

Power ; 
For is not death the powerful — slaying Beauty, 
Rare beauty, highest effluence from High God. 
Ah, me — and to his highest intellect 



P o e m s 399 

The poet — He gave sweet sadness so he sing — 
As through the May-groves — steal the winds 

along 
So drearly, thinking of the snow — and frost 
And dying autumn's bleekness, like sea shores ! 
Was He not sad (and therefore clouds form 

tears — 
And do not stream like torrents down) when 

God 
Found that His highest work grew food for 

lowest— 
When at His high behest that glorious life 
Should linger long and lovely on this globe — 
God saw an icy fiend rush as on prey 
Upon the strange yet sweet unfolding child 
And knew that of the soft-rose bloom wry 

mould 
Arose, that stank, like charnel waters dank. — 
Ah ! did He dream that of the peach-hued 

cheek 
That dreadest fiend sucked out the dark-red 

blood 
And waxen made the smile, like stone the eyes, 
Like steel the sinews — and like ice the heart ! 
So He shed tears — and when it rains it seems 
That Power creative weeps thereat — yet lo — 
From out His tears the mould upsprings — 
Peeps from the wet peet-sod — the fiend is killed 
And from his fetor He makes form anew — 
To delectate the sad mood of His fairest work ! 



400 Poems 

Still, God is sad that He must war with Death ! 
? Tis greatness lifts its head from bed of woe — 
Like tropic beauty-flowers rise from jungles 
Where loneliness lies moaning ! Ah ! — thus 

God 
Reigns all supreme above the universe 
With all it harbors — stars and worlds — and 

things, 
x\nd life — and mankind — blesses with thought 

creative. 
The saddest heart sang sweetest — minds in 

sorrow 
Like woodlands dreary have their nightin- 
gales ;— 
Created rarest litany — downcast lives 
Have ever made their gloom glow 7 radiant 
By wondrous epics kenned by genius alone ! 
Art Thou not sad, unfathomed God — that 

Beauty 
Must be mocked at by Death — and genius the 

prey 
Of ignorance — and the couth violet blow 
Its fragrance for fair spring — then be ignored 
By glorious autumn — yet Thou settest hand 
Upon the earth again — and on the runnelled- 

hill, 
Within shy nooks dost make them smile anew. 
And let them scent the airs ! Still — sadness 

rises 



P o e m s 401 

To Thee — for change makes sport of Thy 

sweet wishes ! 
Then what art Thou — who makes sweet life a 

joy 
Yet hast no power to slay death when he kills ! 
Ah ! two in one — and one composed of two — 
The riddle solved — when, lo, Thy other nature 
Doth rise gaunt — like a whisp o'er moorlands 

drear. — 
We call Thee good — when lo ! Thou slayest 

fast 
Young joys a mother had for two short weeks. 
Her cherub-babe, scarce born, lies in its grave ! 
Those people cradled in the vale Pamere 
Where giant Himalay rules all earth's mounts ; 
They thought full well and knew Thy double- 
power — 
Yet Christ was born and called Thee One in 

All- 
Yea, One in All — One Light that swayed all 

lights, 
Unmercifully dealing with Virtue's smiles 
And smirches of sad vice ! One Light — that 

laughs 
A saint of scorn — and lets him die a death : 
The prey of savage devils who do torture ! 
Yet oft' dost let a tyrant die in state — 
Rich pomp — and shawm-playing his obsequies ! 
Ah — sad it is — yet sadder still to know 
That Thou dost give no answer to our prayers ! 

(1898) 



402 Poems 



IN CALIFORNIA. 

'Tis pleasant, at the silent hour 

Of night, to dream again on hills 

Of tree, and brush, and golden flower — 

And hear the music of flash rills. 

'Tis pleasant, in the drear of night, to be 

Again in sunshine, filled with minstrelsy ! 

'Tis night — and not a noise — a breath ; 
It seems all sounds rest — save the seeth- 
ing, 
From mysterious causes, in the ear-ways ! 
Is it so silent at our death? 
'Tis night — yet I can feel the sun pour down 
Upon my hand, fondling a flower-crown ! 

In a hollow of the waved coast. 

That hears the faint, sad sullenness 
Of ocean's surf-roll — I am lost 
To city's din, and its distress: 
There seated on an old field-rake, while near 
To me two lizards all my whistlings hear ! 

Two lizards small — they do not move — 
But seem as spelled ; not frightened, nay ! 

Both resting in the tune they love. 
For when afeared, they glide away — 



Poems 403 

Then stop, and curl their tail — and thrust their 

head 
Upward — so, till they know their foe has fled. 

They listened — I saw their little eyes — 

I then stood up — and rustled the grass — 
Away, away — then they would lie 
Upon some herb. When I would pass 
My staff afore the sun, the shadow's shape 
Worked on them so to quicken their escape. 

O in the night, I see them gliding, 

Athwart the sand, and herbs ; they rest 
And listen; I see them run, and hiding 
Within a shadow. I wish them blest ! ! 
O in the night to loll o'er a wave of ground, 
Sunlit, whose breeze carries the sad sea-sound ! 



STILLNESS. 

It is still ; the breeze is out ; 
Not a creature is about. 
All is quiet, as at death — 
Save the breeze's milder breath 
Blowing; — save the rolling surf 
In the distance : one short mile 
From this grass-greened pebbly turf 
Away. At morn, it would beguile, 



404 P o e m s 

When I searched for mosses strange : 

All in sight of the high rock-range ; 

But I heard it not from here 

Where the din of town, and cheer, 

Infantine and girly, rose 

In between. — O still, calm night — 

(To the mind a Heaven it shows!) 

But the ocean is not still — 

Ever sounding sad delight — 

E'en when night's deep songs do thrill ! 

Sad, sad, plangent waves of the sea, 
Rolling, breaking ceaselessly, 
To the silent night you are giving 
Voices — souls that chaunt aghast ! 
So at death the soul will be living, 
Sounding Heaven's songs at last! 



WHILE GAZING AT THE CLOUDY MOON. 

While gazing at the cloudy moon, 

From the darkness of a silent street, 
It seemed my fingers could have touched her — 

So near to the clouds she hung there, 
As peeping at the low, forgetful world : 

In matter, gold, and greed tight-furled. 
When no one gazed to see 

Her bright light shine above the tree, 
That dark grew in the low clouds' gloom ! 



Poems 405 

How near the distant moon appeared, 
When thus surrounded by thick clouds 

So is God nearer when woe-shrouds 
And sorrow bind us. — And, afeared, 

We think upon the world's strange doom ! 

How distant seems the moon, when brightest 
stars, 

And perfect night hang over earth and sea ! 
How far away is God, when nothing mars 

Our wants, and we are steeped in luxury ! 
Oh ! I have thanked the Heavens for my pain — 

My woe, my grief — for in them shone 
God's guiding Love-Light nearer and more 
plain ! 

So thought I, while I was alone — 
In the darkness of the silent street 
Dream-gazing at the cloudy moon ! 



SCIENCE:— FAIR HERITAGE TO MAN! 
STROPHE. 

Fair Science is so proud — 
Yet can evoke no cloud 
To rise for two short hours, 
And float above earth's bowers — 

O Science be 
More loving to the great Divinity ! 



406 Poems 



ANTISTROPHE. 

She takes fame's laurels given — 
Yet is she never driven 
To own that all she knows 
Has ever been fair Nature's throes. 
So Science own 
That all you .do — was God's design alone ! 



strophe. 

She doth so many a thing — 
But cannot make the throat 
That with mellifluent note 
Allows the bird to sing — 
O Science show 
Due reverence to Nature's Master-glow ! 



STROPHE. 

How proud is Science fair — 
Yet can not bloom the air 
With freshness of June-showers ; 
And fragrance of wet flowers ! 
O Science ! be 
More loving to the great Divinity ! 



P o e m s 407 



ANTISTROPHE. 

Aye ! Science shows that He 
Hath dowered humanity 
With a few drops of lore ; 
His thoughts that bloomed before ! 
So, Science ! show 
Sweet reverence to God's superior glow ! 

(1892) 



SPIRIT IS INDESTRUCTIBLE. 

O God ! How weak this clay of mine may be ! 
A swathling, naked on its mother's breast, 
Is stranger than I feel, aft' I had been op- 
pressed * 

By long disease — in bed, so sufFringly. 

But though I could not walk, or rise, or stand, 
My mind was gloriously exultant then : 
I thought; and wrote as wise, illustrious 
men ; 

My soul was strong ; my spirit fair and bland ! 

Then thought I of Beethoven, Milton great : 
One deaf, one blind : yet each soul was so 
strong 



408 P o e m s 

To build high verse — compose immortal 
song! 
And to my inner-self I said : though weight 
Of illness, mishap make our body weak — 
The soul and spirit glorious language speak ! 

(January 19, 1892.) 



AN ELEGIE. 

My moods are now the semblance gray 

Of giant-cliffs, that brave the tumultuous 
sea — 
Or seem like clouds : upon a day 

Of sultriness when all seems dead to be — 
Oh ! why must mortal moan 
And live with thought alone ? 
Must greatest man dwell e'er from joy and 
bliss away? 

Here in this city, filled with human 

Depravity and swarms of lowest crow T ds — 
Here, walking now for years, no woman 
Nor man hath gazed my way ; with blackest 
shroudst • 

My thoughts are veiled — my heart 
Can beat no more — a dart, 
With hatred poisoned, pierces me — -I find no 
true man ! 



Poems 409 

I who am thrilled with love and joy 

Can never find a lip to press, — nor know 
A soft warm hand soothe my long-borne 
annoy — 
No voice of friend may soothe my woe — 
Oh ! is it right that here 
The loftiest soul live drear — 
Must dwell apart from human pleasures, others 
aye enjoy? 

Must talent be revered; while genius mourns 

As doth the ringdove in the solitary pine — 
Must commonplace joy, ne'er with thorns; 
While woes aye groove the brow of mind 
divine ? 
Why should the God-inbreathed soul 
Aye sing his lonely song in dole — 
Not once feel soft acclaim, but bear the world's 
low scorns? 

Aye ! all the Christs, the world hath seen be 
born, 
They ever shared the poet's grievous lot, so 
strange. 
Where is the glory of that hallowed bourne 
That we must cross, in ampler realms to 
range ? 
Low jealousy aye kills the one 
Divine — see ! glorious Chatterton ! 
Beethoven's soul was rankled, and his deep 
heart torn ! 



410 Poems 

Then who can blame the bodkin's tempting 
edge — 
Or who the vintage that enchains the wor- 
ried soul — 
Young Bristol's bard made sure his Heaven's 
pledge — 
Mysterious Poe drank deep to find life's 
early goal. 
Why scoff at those who seek relief 
From loneliness, despair, and grief — 
So like the hours around the tarn with fallow 
sedge ! 



The memorial urns that immure for posterity 
The ashes of the genius' life-unwreathed 
clay — 
A few may reverence within the sacristy 
Of old Westminster — but the world at large 
ne'er may 
Know of the works of him whom fame 
At death only hath scrolled a name — 
While all thro life no word of cheer rose lov- 
ingly ! 
Grim, truthful history ingrains on walls 

Of temples deeds of valiant chieftains, pre- 
lates great — 
But who when they were listening to the calls 
Of their proud nation's cause, would hail or 
venerate 



Poem s 411 

Their glorious triumphs bold? 
Ah ! me ! at death they told 
Their empire's glow — too late to wear their 

coronals ! 
So what is life to those who tower above 
The multitudes and strain their Titan-pow- 
ers for glory — 
Those all-unselfish souls were thrilled with love 
For man, yet the indifferent world, so 
blatant, gory — 
Leaves them alone — alone — 
And gives to them a stone — 
Oh ! Homer — Jesu — all those souls who died 
for Love ! 

Is genius but a curse — spat on a brow 

Who in his youth hath felt the sacramental 
breath 
Cool lave his mind ? Is genius like a vow. 
Spoken at God's far altar, to suffer, till 
comes death 
That crowneth him so late? 
Oh ! woe to those whose fate 
Precludeth fatherhood, acclaim, and friendship 
fair, I trow ! 

Why is it? The villain finds his sweet heart- 
mate — 
The low seducer binds the orange-wreath 
full-well— 



412 Poems 

The moneyed sloth hath maidens, sweet-elate — 
The criminal finds women-mourners at his 
cell— 
The rake lures maids full-fain 
To love him for the gain — 
And all are heralded, like worthies, at Re- 
nown's wreathed gate ! 

But where doth bloom a patient woman's heart 
That beats in rapture that a genius loves her 
deep? 
Where are there men who to the world impart 
That they now glorious fruit of a great 
genius reap? 
Who cares to lessen woes 
Of genius, whose life ne'er knows 
What evil, rape, and crime are — he, Virtue's 
counterpart ! 

Oh ! I must weep for those young battered 
hearts — 
White, Otway, Marlowe, Keats and many 
more — 
Young Koner, Chenier, Musset, who felt 
neglect's cold darts. 
Oh ! T must w 7 eep — full well I know they 
bore 
The pangs of solitude — 
The expectant hours, indued 
With hopeless hope, that showed that patience 
courage thwarts. 



Poems 413 

Young heroes — battling with irrecognition 
cold — 
Laborious ; to their sweet imagination duti- 
ful. 
Feeling their loneliness — still taking hold 
Of oft-enweakened resolution — till the lull 
In ardor so unnerved 
Them for the Muse they served — 
That death untimely led them to his flowery 
fold ! 

Still, why must all the spirits, gifted fair, 
Lead such sad, sorrowing hours while here 
on earth? 
Why must the most-inspired find cold despair, 
And breathe without sweet mateship and 
with mirth. 
Who tell ? — I know it too — 
Those who the highest Muses woo 
Are like the stellar orbs ; they dream within a 
finer air ! 

Within a finer air they dream — they see 

The vastness of another world, with spirit 
glowing — 
So how can those who live all servily 

And never feel the larger, soul-imbued 
Knowing, 
That comes to dreamers high, 
The multitude — descry 



414 P o e )iVs 

The extasy of soul, the spirit's joy — so sweet — 
so free ! 

Then, souls, with genius crowned, weep not — 
care not — 
If lonely, silent, unrevered you breathe — 
The jealous throngs live earthly, with no 
dreamer's thought — 
While ye, in adoration of the life, sweet- 
beckoning, wreathe 
Immortal songs, that are 
The pledges to those spirits afar 
Where they shall show you all the mysteries 
of God! 

The mysteries of God, whom never man 
Of mind material may make his own — those 
dreams, 
We genius-garlanded thro life would often 
scan, 
But which no earth-chained mind can feel — 
those moment's beams 
Of Heavenly light we see — 
They are not sent to be 
For minds satanic, they live to show to genius 
God's great Plan ! 

Then, take sweet Courage, as thou dost a girl, 
Upon a vernal field, fair arm in arm: — and 
roam 



Poems 415 

God's splendent realms with her, all mirth, in 
blissful whirl — 
So know that in the shade of gloom, in sor- 
row's gloam, 
She lives there for thy own — 
With her to dream, tho' all alone — 
She is thy gift from God — more precious than 
a pearl ! 

Oh ! ye that will be born, when I am dead — 
Ye who must bear wan solitude as I have 
long— 
For greatest souls must follow dire despair's 
slow tread — 
Ye who must suffer from the highest gift : 
great song — 
Linger o'er this soft elegy — 
Hum it all lovingly — 
Oh ! may it be as balm, as for the poor their 
bread ! 

Oh ! others, long ago, have braved despair — 
Great heroes in the battlefield of beauty's 
fold— 
Oh ! those to come must also lonely fare — 
Great heroes in the struggle against gold — 
But may this song of mine 
Be like a breath divine 
To cheer them on, like flute-notes in night's 
mystic air! 

(August 15, 1907.) 



416 Poem s 

CHANSON. 

Oh ! que c'est beau 

D'entendre l'eau 
Qui ruisselle autour des verts rochers 
Dans les montagnes lugubres et escarpees ! 

Rever la, tout seul — 

Ou, instantane, une feuille 
Se berce dans Pair, et tombe, epanouie, 
Sur la mousse, ou un rayon dore luit ! 

Musique des bois 

Entonnes pour moi 
Une hymne exaltee et pleine de triste mystere, 
Et, momentane, de la gorge altiere, 

Anient, cadencee — 

Comme le chant d'une fee — 
Une chansonnette d'un merle, douce et pure ; 
Alors se perd dans le mysterieux murmure. 

Le Silence se mire 
Dans le vaste empire 
Du ciel a travers les branches de la foret — 
Et moi, revant du passe — puits de mes tristes 
regrets — 
Je me mirois 
Dans le coeur des bois — 
Ou tout dort dans la solitude ; ou le ruisseau 
Murmure, comme dans mon ame la plainte de 



mes maux ! 



(1907) 



Poems 417 



THE GODDESS OF BEAUTY. 

A SONNET BY BAUDELAIRE. 
(A Literal Translation.) 

mortals, I am fair as marble-dream ; 

My bosom on whom each bruised his heart, 

glows aye 
So some lorn poet sing his sweet love-lay : 
Eternal, mute as doth earth's matter seem. 
A Sphinx unfathomed, I'm throned on high; 

1 unite a snow-heart with swan's plumage that 

shines ; 
I hate the movements marring beauteous lines ; 
Xo laughter ripples — and I never sigh. 
The poets kneeling before my attitudes, 
Which I impart to proudest monument, 
Will pass their days, while, austere Learing 

broods ; 
For I possess, to fascinate their love-sworn 

bents, 
Most perfect mirrors, where all more perfect 

shows : 
My eyes, my large eyes, thrilled with eternal 

glows ! 

(June 18, 1907.) 



418 Poems 



TO MY HANNAH! 

A quiet tune is dreaming in the oak — 

A sense of calm pervades my being's mind. 

Afar, the waving hillocks sweetly wind 

To the hill — with its faint-blue morning cloak. 

The birds purl in the brake — the distant croak 

Wanders from tree to slope, to field ; — the 

hind 
Low bellows — and a bird knocks the tree's 
rind ; — 
Then sighs a branch — then breathes, as if one 
spoke ! 

O, tender Hannah ! So impressional seems 
My mind, that while I pencil shapes, that 

show 
The prospect — whose repose is dear and 
low — 
My hand is seized by the loftier dreams 

In my deep soul — my spirit dwells in spheres 
Of quietude — and lives in earlier years. 

(1885) 



P o e m s 419 

HOW LOVE DOTH CHANGE THE MIND. 

A SONG. 

I remember how eagerly I viewed the falls 
Last year ! and one sweet winter blew since 
then. 
I watched each shadow, listened to the wood- 
land calls 
With blissful ear; and thought me mated 
with the glen ! 



I remember how I climbed the jutting rocks, 
And felt the rich green mosses, while they 

slept. 
How through the singing cascades' snow- 
white locks 
I passed my fingers; then shyly downward 
crept ! 



How joyfully I touched the tall-grown fern; 
And culled the lone wood-flowers — how 
swift 
My whistle shrilled through the tree — how 
prone to learn 
I was of stone, and tree, our life's long drift. 



420 P o e m s 

I remember, when I sat me on a high, lone 
crag 
How bloomed seemed the vale — and voice- 
ful seemed 
The sky! How whistful stared I at each jag 
That stayed the brook — how blissfully I 
dreamed ! 



I remember how eagerly I clomb the steeps 
Last year ! And one sweet winter with a 
love 
Hath passed since then ! but now my vision 
weeps 
Before me, and it weeps through all the 
grove ! 

And now the rushing falls sound longing songs 
For my sweet love ! My ear hears no sweet 
bird 

Carol blithely — but my bleeding heart so longs 
For sweetest laughter to treble to a word ! 

O, now the rocks bear on their old, old crests 
A phantom of my Anne — like Undine 
gleamed ; 
Awhile to dream — and on the moss there rests 
Her languid form — with her laugh-eyes full- 
beamed ! 



P o e m s 421 

O, now the soft spray dances on its airy barms : 
Full scores of Anne's, all came as my one 
own ! 
O, now the air glows, filled with all her 
charms — 
Meseems the fall and rocks and woods are 
gone! 

O, now I care not how the wavelets crisp — 
I heed not how the murmurs swell and fall — 

My ears are sung to by angels that sweetly lisp 
That soon mine Anne will love — and that is 
all! 

I remember how eagerly I watched the woods 
Last year ! — and one sweet winter with a 
bliss 
Hath passed since then ! But now these soli- 
tudes 
Grow lonely — and my lips long for her kiss ! 

I remember how all the babblings of the falls 
Had joyed my heart — last year! but now 
they croon 
So softly — and my bleeding heart so pleading 
calls 
And hankers for Love's true and healing 
boon ! 

White Mountains (1885). 



422 Poems 



THE MOUNTAIN SWALLOW. 

See the mountain-swallows drink — 

In the warm morning's light. 
All are hovering o'er the water's brink 

Then float, in their airy flight ! 
They seem like butterflies, bred in a land 
Of giants, while they beak the water bland ! 

White Mountains. 



A MYSTERY. 

(a fact.) 

Through silent night's immense and ebon veil 
Oh ! countless twinkling stars blinked to the 
vale. 

O Night ! hoar Druidess in Time's domain ! 
Was spending Sibyl-sooths of woe and pain. 

Low muttered all the brooklet-spirits and fays ; 
Slow moaned the breath in aspen and cedarn- 
ways ! 

What gently-strummed harps oozed melody ! 
What echoes came falling from high eternity ! 



Poems 423 

Oh ! mysteries of weird import shed down 

their spells — 
Telling in sighs and singing what beyond sweet 

dwells. 



Calm, calm the heavens heaved ; and without 

affright — 
Full-conscious of a knowing, all-caring Alight! 

My soul fled away above the glowing stars : 
It saw the life that sheens when naught our 
dreaming mars ! 

Anne ! I gazed into the Northern ray — 
Where dip those seven stars in the Milky Way. 

1 marveled at the wonders of the heaven — 
When, sudden, blazed the flames of the sum- 
mer's levin. 



I shuddered — stared — and lo ! I saw up there 
A beaded bar of light, sparkle with glow and 
flare! 



It sparkled, as doth a queen's gold diadem; 
On either side there streamed a steady flame! 



424 Foe 111 s 

It glozced up there, like a sign of the wrathful 



pods — 



6 



It seemed like one of Zeus's spangled rods! 

Quiet poised, with no intention, or fierce, or 

dire — 
But importuned to awe Night's glorious starry 

fire! 

I stared — I marveled, astounded — and I 

thought ! 
When it flashed away, as suddenly as it was 

wrought. 

O Anne ! then mused I deep — and mused — and 

stayed 
There, waiting till another blaze its fire swayed. 

But none appeared ! — I stood — and saw the 

star, 
That shone full-brightest in th' heavens, near 

or far ; 

So slowly — calmly — awefully — tranquilly — 
Drop abaft the mount, down void's unfathomed 
sea! 

Oh ! saw those eighteen million clustered stars 

shift slow 
To rest — where too the southern Bear fell low. 



Poems 425 

O Anne ! and scores of meteors glowed ; down- 
streaming swift, 

Were lost in Night's mysterious veil, whom 
none may lift ! 

Oh ! was that wondrous sign an omen of love — 
Or was it oracled by mocking Alanes above? 

Xo like I saw before — nor shall see again — 
Then Night spent Sibyl-sooths of woe and 

pain ! 
Oh! awful Calm: ebon — cowled with jeweled 

stole ! 
Oh ! stars and orbs — the Gateway for our soul ! 
White Mountains, X. H. (Aug. 10, 1885). 



THE BROOKLET'S ELEGY. 

O, lovely Hannah, this cold morn of June 
I strayed here in these leafy woods, where 

pines 
Sigh and the ash whines in despair. I came 
To pencil its sweet fall — in whose lone shade 
I fluted strains in memory of thy smile. 
Sweet strains, that Beethoven's so magic music 

sways : 
His song-tune : Recollections Old. 
So suited to my mood — soothing my soul ! — 
I came this windy morn, whose sky was cold 



426 P e m s 

With white autumnal clouds — and brumal 

winds — 
To pencil the sweet fall, that I had sketched. 
O, Hannah, feel with me my woe — the grief 

that stole 
Into my heart, as my joy-eyes were torn apart 
At sight of the destruction in these woods : — 
The gentle fall, whose shade enticed me to its 

flow 
And called me sweet to put its patter on a 

leaf- 
Was glaring in the sun, its cool snow-white- 
ness gone ; 
For its fond flowing had decreased — before it 

lay 
Disorderly a huge pine, pealed, cut, 
Its sighing branches tearing in the brook — 
And yellow blea all glowing in the sun. The 

scene, 
So fresh, when erst I came to salute its green. 
Was strewn with debris of the pine-tree's 

limbs ; 
And hid the brook, and part of that sweet fall ! 
Oh ! how could I now let my pencil lose its 

way 
O'er the white sheet, since all now lay de- 
stroyed ! 
Methought the lightning's brand'shing sword 
had slayn 



Poems 427 

Those hoary pines ; but when I heard harsh 
strokes 

Of crook-hidden woodmen's axes — then I 
woke — 

And knew the hand of such destruction low ! 

And all the while I heard a sighing in the 
brook — 

As though the spirit of the falls were mourn- 
ing there ; 

And wailing soft its slight woe to the chilled 
wind! 

And, Hannah! (and oh! if thou could'st but 
have heard 

With me!) an elegy, so sweet, oh! simple- 
sweet 

Was borne to me — the spirit of the fall 

Wailed thus its loss of shading pines : 

O, blessing pine, where art thou gone? 

Thy coolness flowed my breeds ; 
And hast thou left me all alone 

With no song for the meads? 

O, leafy linden, breezy-cool — 

And tender in your boon, 
That greened with smiles my bubbling pool 

At eve, at morn, at noon ! 

O, shade, that gav'st me midnight dreams ; 
That screened me from the sun — 



428 Poems 

Where art thou flown — where are the gleams 
That basked, when day was done? 



I see thy long, lank stem before 
Me lie — thy branchlets wed 

With my offsprings — but see no more 
Thy blessings near me tread ! 



My soft, sweet cushion is now all sear- 
My love-songs croon no more. 

I look up in the sun with fear, 
Whom I can not adore ! 



O, pine, O lindens, whispering shade — 
Are you so quite, quite dead? 

Must all my murmuring love-songs fade 
That you are from me fled? 

Oh ! when shall days come back to me 

When to your leaves I sang? 
When shoutings of my inmost glee 

Through all the forest rang? 



Oh ! when may those days cool again- 
When in your simple shade 

My darkness joyed the loving swain 
And heard the love he said? 



Poems 429 

O, pine that once was my sole boon — 

What tears I shed for thee ! 
O, lindens, now my waters croon 

A soft, sad elegy! 



Such strains I caught from the wind's gushing 

breath 
That took the brooklet's wail 'way far to lands 
Where other streamlets wail the same ! 

I gazed 
Once more on fallen pine, on broken stems 
Of tender linden-trees ; then bade I farewell ! 
Ah ! mourned with all the brooklet's w T ail and 

cry 
And, sad, my spirit sought for sympathy 
For what could I, small man, prohibit there, 
When man of olden mind had cut the lindens 

down ; 
And felled the pine with axe-stroke ; and had 

made 
A proud heart of the simple, shady falls — 
Oh ! Anne ! so pomp and show of this earth's 

world 
Bemar the coyness and the loveliness 
Of maids ! — so sparkle they in jewelled dress 
And lost their fond, green coolness of their 

minds. 
And flow their thoughts in glittering channels 

—lit 



430 Poems 

By gawdy sun of Pride and vain Conceit, 
And where then find again their natural charm 
Of maidenhood, of beauty's shyness — ay, 
Of reverent love, and holy piety? 
O Anne, let no one fell that hoary Pine 
That shades and curls thy purest maidenhood ! 
Nor tear, with venomed hand, those charming 

lindens 
That green thy grace, with pious voicings 

breathed. 
And if thou fearest those rays of pride and 

sin : 
O, rest within my pure arms — sleep near me : 
Who lives but here to praise the purity 
Of woman — who but seeks a pure young soul 
To foster his pure thoughts to flow in glow 
Of the One God ! 

O, Hannah ! how my mind 
Is fresh to think thee dream with me, poor lad ! 

Endileld Falls, N. Y. (June 8, 1885). 



SONG. 

When clouds of disappointment and despair 
Have gloomed the soul's wide firmament — 

How soothing is a sign of memory 

Come from a friend, unheard of for a year ! 

Ah me ! it is a ray of radiancy 

That bursts through all the storm-ruled air ; 



P o e m s 43 1 

And in the soul anew there is content — 
And from the woe-pressed lips there smiles a 
sign of cheer ! 

The fairest flower that blossoms in sad life, 
Whose fragrance mingles with our woe, 

Is the dear knowledge that we're not forgot. 

And that some bear us hearty memory still. 
Then may we brave yet disappointment's lot, 
And struggle on through cruel plaint and 

strife ! 
And, when we think there's no more glow, 

That flower's fragrance serves our plaint with 
hope to fill. 

When gloom and disappointment long have 
rolled 
Above the soul's wide skies, like thunder- 
clouds — 
How like a ray of sunshine through the yeasty 
dome 
Doth seem a sudden sign of memory, 
Come from a friend ! — Then may our thinking 
roam 
Awhile in sunlit air, while true controlled 
By all the magic that the thrill enshrouds : 
To know there's one who lets us not forgotten 
be! 

(April, 1900). 



432 Poems 



AFTER VISITING F. S. SALTUS'S 
MONUMENTAL GRAVE. 



Weep not, thou, who in Heaven art rejoicing; 
Weep not that thou on earth wast left for- 
lorn : 
Around thy marble-tomb the birds are voicing 
Rapt songs of praise for thee from early 
morn 
Till sundown ; — when the graves in shadow lie, 
And faint sounds whisper from the brooklet 
nigh ! 

Weep not, for on the choice carnation-marble 
Thy name is 'graven to last till earth be 
gone. 
And whoso reads, while thousand birds do 
warble, 
Will know thou hadst on earth to god-hood 
grown : 
He'll know thy genius-soul wrought music fair, 
And poesy, and love, all past compare ! 

Hydrangeas bow in homage of thy glory ; 

Around thy grave e'erlasting marble stands ; 
A royal stone hath 'graven deep thy mind's 
fair story : 



P o e m s 433 

All keep thee living to men from all earth's 
lands. 
Then weep not, for full-myriad birds entone 
Rapt praise to thee, thou Titan-genius lone ! 

(October 13, 1898.) 



THE DREARY RAIN. 

It is when the rain streams down 
In mournful fall — 
Like murmured call 
From Charon, gliding to the darkling town. 
Oh ! when the rain drenches the trees 
And thro its drops sound prophesies : 
So sad, so sad, so lorn : 
Like wail of hankering Magdalene 

Through one full-sorrowing morn 
Of woe, and grief, — and no red sheen ! 
Oh ! when the muffled thunder-hoofs slow clat- 
ter on — 
Thro lones of fretting, young Endymion ; 
And widely wields his sword proud Zeus old ; 
Xor spares nor tree, nor lane, nor sleeping- 
folds— 
Oh, then let strains of sad song stream from 
me ; 
And anguish flow in mel-like currents on. 
And oh ! divine Melancholy ! 



434 Poems 

Let her be crowned with lily-wreaths, and 

shone 
Upon by smiling, love-lorn virgins fair ; 
And let full three-fold music pair! 
Oh ! sing ! my torn, lorn heart — oh ! sing — 
And Love may spread one scented wing! 

White Mountains, N. H. 
(1885) 



TRIUMPH. 



Others may have their triune gifts and love 
them — 
Thro youth they see which serves them 
best — 
Then leave forlorn the other two — then serve 
one 
Thro life, till they may find their final rest — 
They were too weak in soul 
Three Muses to control — 
They sought not for the glorious Grail — its 
mighty quest ! 

Thro youth three splendent Muses smiled 
around me — 
I could have chosen one for me thro' life — 
But I was valiant, and with vigor to charm me 



P o e m s 435 

I curbed them to my chariot : Strife — 
They were my steeds I led 
To victory — when I sped 
Like a charioteer thro all my woe with moan- 
ing rife ! 



Such triumph have I earned ! Great Michael 
crowned me ! 

Like to a charioteer those three fair steeds 
I bridled — harnessed to Strife's chariot, gold- 
en-garlands 
Strung round its wheels, fair valor's meeds — 
And thus I won the race 
And took with heroic grace 
The trifoil-wreath, that Victory gives — to 
triumph leads ! 

(September, 1907.) 




®lj? Nflflk 



LUXEMBOURG-GARDENS, PARIS, FRANCE 




Poems 437 



THE NOOK. 

Around, the noise of the metropolis 
With its wild fever-flurry sounds ; 
The vehicles grate the pavement ; — carts, 
With village cates, rattle ; where a motley is 
The crowd of equipages full rebounds 
The voice of beagles — in fits and starts. 
O, 'mong the din and bustle of the town, 
I found a lovely spot that's green and lone! 

Around the toadies wabble near their bar- 
rows — 
The aldine trull seeks with enerved eye ; — 
The gentry walk with undue thoughts ; 
Gay girlies wanton with the sparrows 
And sing in joy; and clerk-boys fly — 
Intent : some old cripple begs — and rots ! 
O, where the fret of furious earning is 
I found a nook where flowers secluded bliss ! 

Around, the hum-drum of traffic's tune — 
That mingles with the surge of people 
That silently move, halt and vanish ! 
Around, the distant flutter — as croon 
Of farther warbles, where the gilded steeple 
Tells mart is bustling to replenish ! 

amid the sounds of city's worry-fleet 

1 found a niche, as Psyche's bower-sweet ! 



438 Poems 

How did I? Purse those damask-buds — 
Love thy blessed phantom, till it fades — 
O, dimple those hillocks of fuchsia-hue — 
Smile till their richness streams, as floods 
From creamy pools, where crimson shades 
Net work the brindled vault of blue ! 

How did I? Let thy pearl nod towards my 
chin — 

And thou shalt list to songs as woodland din ! 



An iron gate leads to the park 
Of Luxembourg — there marbles pure — 
And chisseled by high artist-souls, 
Enhance the shrubberies ; — an arc 
Of vines, neat-rampant — with contour 
Of feast festoon — cuts to fair gooles 

Of wall — dense tree-crests — whose brown- 
yellow leaves 

Low rustle winter '11 come — summer grieves ! 



This arch of wild-vines views a walk 
On either side of a long basin — 
Short leading to a terraced fountain — 
Of evens, lovers wheedle and talk — 
And melancholy eyes ne'er hasten — 
For here : a trickle as of mountain 
A patter as of inland murmuring — 
Or as the leaf-rustle from the lyre-wing! 



Poems 439 

A stern, deep sculpture walls from sight 
The houses, the dome-spired Pantheon — 
It seems the bustle of the streets 
Is deadened — the wide apex bright, 
With garlands, shields the royal crown — 
In centre ; below a titan meets 
His brother; both their water-jars unfilling — 
Their thews, reclining forms are vast and 
thrilling ! 



The middle-weathered bronze is huge ! 
It is great Polyphemus ! with 
His bullock-hide — his tooth, and sling! 
Crouched! leaning, (with a jealous grudge 
Upon his brow, with not a writhe — 
But with barbaric death-wishing 
In all his muscles rioting) — so leans 
He o'er a jag that a cave's murmur gleans ! 



And this cave shelters Galatsea 
And her own lover Acis ! — how 
He holds her languour-fond — he* feels 
Her back-bent neck — and he may see her 
Fair blooming limbs crave passion's glow — 
May dream in all her longing weals — 
Both are a fancy ! soft with love, with dreams 
In each line ! — How love requited blissful 
seems ! ! 



440 Poems 

By columns, with the Doric art 
Inwove — and surfaced, as the stone 
Ekes, where the ever-dropping chill 
Hardens to icicle spears — a part 
Of the fount-wall is niched and one 
Dwells Pan — gay piping by a rill — 
And one swift Dian, ready with her quiver's 

give- 
Rare orned it is — O, could a king not live ! 

And there the waters sleep — as by 

The Sphinx, where palm-woods moist the 

sand — 
They sleep, with dulcet ripples playing — 
With drops slow-falling wearily 
As thrums, far in fair Hindoo-land, 
Fall one by one — as though dismaying ! 
And the cool waters sleep — with murmurs 

coming 
From trickling bubbles — as hart-threads 

through the gloaming ! 

And there the carved stones are green — 
As epidote, where lucent streams 
Flow tranquilly — and sallow-seared — 
By crevices, where sharp decay hath been — 
And pink-dun, as the lornful gleams 
Of far day over — evening bleared — 
Decks the receding blocks — a warmth uprose 
Bred the small parasites — so Nature boons 
bestows ! 



P o e m s 441 

And there the waters lodge the fries, 

And slender fish ; they basset where 

The liquid deepens the heavens — and leaves 

Affront not whizzings of the flies — 

O, fly ! sopped — you are the frie's fare ! 

And see them, as by cradled seeves 

Gay shoals of shad, and salmon. And they 
play, 

Gambol — shoot — as princes pledged to sportive 
fray! 

And there curled leaves lie. spotting all 
With russet, gule, and orange; heaps 
Of mould'ring leaves bunch on the water ; 
And silently from trees there fall 
The autumn tears ; touched — up it leaps 
High as flowers barbules — then with laugh- 
ter 
Smiles at the high branch — and sinketh low 
In the caring basin — till it dips in woe ! 



O, there I stayed — and there I saw 
Thee crisping a large sorrel leaf — 
With encouraging eyes thou soughtest me — 
My fingers quivered — as the haw 
With morning's tears encumbered. — Grief 
Rustled about — I saw not thee ! 
But while I mourned — I heard Ionian tales — 
Those marbles melodized as in Idalian dales : 



44 2 Poems 

"Though thou, mine Acis, beest dead- 
No more thy blood, so deep blue-red — 

May blush thy smile for me — 
Thy rock's rich shade I covet ever — 
Thy life-blood bubbles up a river 

That seeks the azure sea !" 



"O, myriad incense-amphoras 
To thee, Oceanus ! Who prays, 

With love at heart — for favors — 
The father of the sylphids hears ! 
And dry are all the pleading-tears — 

All fumes of Dictean savors ! * 



"My goddess-girdle keeps me free 
To swim the dear stream up to thee — 

My Acis, lovely love ! 
But oh how soother, when we twain 
Heaved bosom and breast — and then had 
layn 

In scents of nard and clove ! 

O, thousand songs to Thethys boon — 
O, Nereids, with your lyres, croon 

Soft wave-lays for her kindness ! 
O, tears may turn mellifluent 
The sordid brine — and quick consent 

Springs after anger-blindness ! 



, Poems 443 

"How happy ! Acis — that thy blood 
Comes to me in such bland flowed flood — 

And draws me to that stone. — 
O, we may whisper still our passion — 
When all day thy creamed wavelets lash on 

The cravings of my zone ! 



"O, that young love should shattered lie 
By age's uncouth jealousy: 

O, cruel Polyphemus ! 
Why thoughtest thou the sea-god's daughter 
So frail and sweet — should leave the water 

To wed one huge as Hemus ! 



" 'Tis done ! and my warm tears commingle 
With sighings, purling through the dingle 

Where one rock is mine all ! 
O, there we whisper, as nightingales — 
As Progne, when mild Aeol sails, 

To burn-cliffs, grey and tall ! 



"O, when from far wolds of Himera 
The clouds drift, each a dark Chimera, 

There hellows the rock's cave — 
O, then our love resounds — and hours — 
Erotic moments by shepherd-bowers, 

My sorrowing dreamings stave ! 



444 Poems 

"O, bloom of love ! for thee, I changed 
My beryl-home — through fields I ranged 

To follow fairest swain ! 
Mine Ac is stole to me — my love 
Sought him at cote, and pool and grove — 

We wove the wedlock-chain ! 



"Together, heard we Triton's horn — 
Ligiea's barbiton at morn — 

A reed at shady noon ; 
A tortoise-lyre by the sand — 
Soft chanting ; and a wreathed wand 

Guiding, by mellowed moon ! 



"O, arm in arm, we let the spray 
Of jasmine lip us — and away 

We colored all the hills ! — 
O, lip to lip, we swooned in scents- 
Or lay on blooms like orpiments — 

And bathed in sheldy rills ! 



"Together saw we Dian chase — 

The fawn with antlered hart swift race— 

And Pales at the fold — 
We saw how Priapus oft' comes 
To bless the meads and shepherd-homes- 

How Pan pipes in the wold ! 



P o e m s 445 

"O, lock in lock — we laughed and shouted — 
O, how he kissed me, when I pouted — 

He wreathed my brow with laurels — 
O, eye in eye we prayed to Zeus 
That e'er in love-bliss he would see us ! 

We slept on beds of morils ! 



"O, Acis ! now the bubbles of dreams 

Are what our love grew ! And the streams 

Of blood are vails and fears ! 
O, Acis ! I asked restore thee whole — 
But this thy rock is as a mole — 

Thy flood but dreary tears ! 



"O, day too sad t for memory — yet 
Too sweet and dear to quite forget — 

A scene to burst the heart — 
Yet tinge the paled cheek with pink! 
For though we not of love-bliss drink 

We need not be apart ! 



"High Latium's King, Arcadia's lord — 
Let flow what Tempe could afford — 

Faunalian feasting gorged 
The lanes ; the cypress-aisles ; the dells. 
There were Sicilian jars of mells 

All what Pomona forged ; 



446 P o e m s 

" Festoons hung tortive round the limes — 
And garlands strown upon the thymes, 

Supinely — as the clouds 
That chain, when Hesper twinkles lone — 
By chequered lawn — an orned stone — 

Around whom heaved the crowds 

"Worshipping Pan ! 

And there were girls — 
With byssine stoles — and aural curls — 

Whose flanks like lilies shone — 
From fair Forina's nooks their flowers — 
Their leaves and twigs from vintner's bow- 
ers — 
Their crowns of emerald stone — 
"With pale torquoise their zones were 

spotted — 
Their flying veils with glitter dotted — ■ 

They were the shepherdesses — 
They danced — or moved with grace — or 

bended 
Their cygnet-necks ; or silent wended 
To vine-shades for caresses ! 

"O, Faunus prided in such glow — 
And gulped the goblet's heavy flow — 

And Satyrs piped — and Fauns 
Their timbrels tapped — till all swung round 
In tiptoe mirth to revelling sound 

And rung the flowering lawns. 



P o e m s 447 

"And Acis wheedled me thither too — 
Through allies dark of fir and yew 

We heard our voices only — 
Till through an olive-copse there gleamed 
Rich purple cloaks — and splendrous 
beamed 

A tiar of some lonely, 

"Forlorn, bright Dryad. Then we heard 
A whurr — a whizzing — then it birred — 

And sizzled — till we stood 
Where cloven-footed Pan with wreaths 
Of brightest blooms was stormed — and 
sheaths 

Of blossoms kept the carved wood ! 

"O, Acis wove azealeas dark 

In my tresses — pinched my hair with spark 

Or rubies, diademmed ! 
He would have hailed me queen of all — 
He would have cloven me as a thrall 

To Venus — foam-begemmed ! 

"O, Acis won the spear of cereals — 
Was hailed now one of the Ethereals — 

A shepherd-pelt he won ! 
And to me brought he licnons, wrested 
From shy Bacchantes : rosy-breasted : 

And twined the umbels on ! 



448 Poems 

"And Sylvans scampered to his throne 
Adored him, as by Pelion 

Silenus homage gets ! 
O, Hamadryads crowded round 
To blush at him ; and Lymniads wound 

Long strings of violets ! 



"And by his side his Galatea 
Shone radiant, as Olympian Rhea 

At Saturnalia's pomp — 
O, how young shepherds sprang and maids 
And Junos danced — as o'er the glades 

The ewes and lambkins romp. 



"When lydian measures, clarisonous — 
Moved slow ; and songs antiphonous 

Dulcifluously flowed — 
And through th' acanthus, smiling there 
'Mongst drooped beans, as in Lea's hair 

Her spanglets, agate-glowed. 



"Citharas swung the cirrose twigs 

Of vines ; when, where couth sylvan prigs, 

In nooks, erotic played — 
Rich dythirambic fifes and drums 
Strayed to us, as some bloom-hid humms 

Of thousand bees. When glade 



Poems 449 

" And grove seemed bare, and all had run 
To shades sequestered, where the sun 

Was element, as when Eos 
Loves Aeol more, we bended and swung 
Our lissome flanks — and clasped — and hung 

Our arms — as Hymenseos 



"With some fond shepherdess doth use — 
We skipped the lawns — as fallows, loose 

From long sennightly capture — 
Our hems touched breezes o'er us swaying — 
Our locks flew long — our amorous saying 

Was more than Lucine's rapture ! 



"We sought the umbrate gratefulness 
Of wolds — and glens — where silentness 

Hears but a purl, a strain 
Of Echo's far sweet song to Pan — 
But there the revellers began 

Their feast before the wane 



"Of day ! O, cates as Corydon 
But wished for himself alone — 

Rich meats — and savored strong — 
Black roe-buck flesh — fawn's tender loins: — 
And barbecues — of widest groins — 

And lambs on grilling prong. 



450 Poems 

"And where coy Nais smiled, there heaped 
Sooth confects — sugared tablets — steeped 

In Ariusian blood — 
O, confits of the fea-berries 
Of pulpy grapes from Tyrennian seas, 

Spiced with the fumes of bud 



"Of cloves; and gourds of pepper red 
To zest the taste of cereal-bread ; 

And mell — from Hyblean-dells — 
And fruits, the shepherds graft each year 
To wax their lusciousness ; from near 

Fresh coolness of the wells — 



"And pears, and oranges — figs, dates- 
Diversity that ever mates 

With demigodly feast ; 
The older drank the nectarine mead- 
Served by fair sylphids of the seed 

Of Neptune ; wines from east 



"Of fertile Morea trembled in vases 
Endorned with pastoral dance, and mazes 

Of bucolic jollity; 
They stood there, free to Faunus leal — 
As to the prancing Satyre's zeal — 

The boozling weight to dry ; 



Poems 451 

"And earthen jars, with carved handles, 
Their fluted girth gauged two short ban- 
dies — 

Cooled amber-draught ; and bags 
Of goat-hides bore thick Scio fire ; 
And specked Chelonian cups rose higher — 

And as a love-gone brags 



"Of more than what is his — so all 
Profess to be to Bacchus thrall, 

And gulped till dregs lay sweet 
Upon the brilliant goblet-floor — 
Till wine and nectar was no more— 

And all had lost their feet ! 



"O, as in Somnus' folds they were — 
As yet few citoles dulcet stir 

Withthrough the plantains trebled — 
O, as girls clanged the cimbals — danced 
Antiphonies — retreated — advanced 

Before the flame-square, pebbled 



"With gold-beads ; as the youths their reeds 
Yet tipped, some slenderly o'er meads 

Gamboling — with limber thews 
Proud vying Spartan heroes ; as the din 
Waned, to soft swelling — and out and in 

The labyrinth avenues 



452 Poems 

"Yet pert eyes hopped, and eager hands 
Caught swelte waists — stretched for flow- 
ered bands 

Mine Acis kissed my bosom — 
Our path led to a grotto cool: 
Mossed roof for sheerest mountain-pool — 

And as some guarded blossom — 



"There was a couch of mossed stone — 
Grown for some love-sleep — quiet and lone, 

Upon whom lay we, wrapt 
In each and others fancies — as they sheened 
In our eyes ! O, there I leaned 

Upon his breast — he lapped 

"My stilly buds of maiden-blush — 
And we spake not — the fountain-gush 

Splashed melodies — with eyes 
Soft closed, he sang dreams, lydian toned ; 
Of love so pure ; of love one owned — 

Of love that, by surprise, 

"The unfelt heart bursts to a forge — 
Of love whose happiness doth forge 

The illumined virgin-soul — 
Of love that cankered grew, eked mad — 
Of love such he and I now had — 

Resinging all the whole ! 



P o e m s 453 

"O, would that such had lasted till 
Mine Acis were a god of rill 

And stream, and flood and sea — 
So that we so could rest in ease 
Unfrightened — ever thus to cease — 

O, ever sleep with me ! 



"He sang — while through the alley's shade 
The glittering light, each bending blade 

Of herbs, as gold now streamed — 
Far Ceres' high cleithros rosed ; 
And the woods purpled — languour oozed 

From everything that dreamed — 



"Sol rode his chariot, fleeter-urged — 
Down where he meets wan Phoebe ; emerged 

From far a Zephyr-whiff — 
O, Acis sang — I warmed upon 
His love-full heart — all while alone 

We saw afar the cliff 



"Flash glowing crimson — and the sea 
Heaved as a windling-sca-ttered lea 

Of jonquils, and of clover — 
Thick-grown in fullest blossom-hour! 
O, Acis sang — while far Ops' tower 

Pinked, as the cheek of lover 



454 Poems 

When footfalls guide her heark'ning ear ! 
O, Acis sang — when a shadow drear 

Moved over our curls — 
He sang — it darked before us ! 'Love/ 
His dulcet words said, 'was to prove, 

The chastity of girls' — 



"O, Acis sang — when a cloud of black 
Swelled all before our eyes — a crack 

A crumbling — oh ! — a block 
Came rolling — oh ! a splash — O, spare ! 
Huge Polyphemus darked the lair — 

He rolled, and cast the rock ! 



" 'Revenge must see its fierce design 
Now burst to action — enough of thine 

Clandestine wooings warm ; 
Red Galatea must be mine own — 
Else Vulcan's bolt will light, and groan, 

And thou die in the storm !' 



"So cried, with megalophonous threat. 
Huge Polyphemus ! A chill — a fret — 

Tumultuously whirled 
Through us- — 'Aline Acis, we must flee — 
Quick, quick to my home, the beryl-sea ! 

Or else the rock he hurled 



Poems 455 



a i 



Shall be thy tombstone!' And we flew 
Away over knoll — brushed evening dew — 

And pressed the tender blooms. 
We passed the temple ; till the ocean 
Rolled, low in affectionate emotion 

Our all-uncertain dooms ! 



"But as we worried o'er a brier — 
We saw him run, as star-light fire, 

With rock high in his clutch ! — 
I trembled — O, he hurled the rock ; 
It cleft mine Acis with a shock — 

It bled him thick and much. 



"O, as gigantic Tityus he 

With rage as flamed Tisiphone — 

Triocular Cyclops-head ! 
He would to grasp my zone — the main, 
Where Tethys watched — loved me again- 

To the beryl-sea I fled — 



"And dashed within the calming waves ! — 
'O, Tethys, mother, who but saves 

And never dost destroy — 
O, give mine Acis to my heart — 
Let his blood be a sensate part 

Of our home's foaming joy ! 



456 Poems 

" 'Oceanus, hailed god of all 
The waters, lake, and waterfall — 

Flood — river — wide expanse 
Of briney depth — and husband dear 
To Thety's, Parthenope, O, hear ! 

Save ! while yet timely chance, 



" 'Mine Acis warms — ere cold he lies ; 
O, let his blood flow to the fries 

Of polyp-wavering shallows — 
O, let his blood be streams of water 
To wanton yet with thy dear daughter 

Where happy Proteus wallows — 



" 'And let his fair frame change to stone — 
That giveth living springs ; where, lone 

Air-Echo may rejoice ! 
O, hear and save — Oceanus ! 
Once more a love-pair form of us — 

Resound thy lordly voice ! 



"So clamantly precipitated 

My voice — I would not be so fated 

As widowed mortal-maid — 
And Nereids doled with me ; . . . O, gush 
Of Acis' blood — on whom the hush 

Of tender woodland-shade 



Poems 457 

"As trustiness on love's boon stream — 
Came flowing", as in torturing dream 

I saw my loneliness ! 
Again I felt the gentle touch — 
Again the kiss I craved so much — 

Again his warm caress ! 

"O, Acis was mine own, as ever — 
Swim up and down the passion-river — 

And lie upon the stone ! 
So was my fate turned sooth and light — 
Him could I whisper, day and night — 

O, Acis fond, mine own !" 

So modulated the quiet nook — 
Such lays that love to dally by 
Old temples, where oleander-trees 
Grace near some legendary brook — 
Or in the pales of history — 
Washed by its thousand-wintered seas ! 
It was as though dear Thessaly rose fair; — 
And Ilion its propitious peaks did rear ! 

I saw Callipso weep, when one 

Sad valedictory had spoken — 

I heard the pestered waves dash swift — 

And saw the storm play havoc on — 

On him who had memorial token 

From her, who watched the corals drift : 



45^ P o e m s 

Ulysses entered the huge cave ; with brand, 
Burnt three huge eyes — no Cyclops roamed 
that land ! 

And Ossa's olives shimmered 'gainst the blue 

I heard hoar Atreus play divine — 

Cold Heber's flood warmed in those groves, 

Where nymphs and fauns were warbled to — 

I gazed at frolick in the brine — 

And god-jocosness through alcoves 

Of that dead heaven, whose death sheens our 
sky! 

And listening to those songs — I wished to die ! 

O, Helcion — Peneus-stream 
And groves, with terminuses orned — 
O, Crete, and Lesbos gemmed the sea — 
And lyres striking lovely theme — 
And Vesta-brows with blooms adorned — 
All come from mother-Cybele ! 

O, Clotho spun for Daphne ; and Amphion ! 

And Atropos smiled on fire-doomed Ixion ! 

O, Anne ! there listened I to tunes 
As the high ash hears nigh the fell — 
As mountains chaunt when all is still 
In vale, and forest-close, there croons 
Mysterious lay — as fuming spell 
Doth bristle flowers by the rill ! 
O, Anne ! the patter of the small drops made 
Such lornful music, as in woodland-shade! 



P o e m s 459 

there I could again so dream 
Of thee, and of such silent sighs 
That sudden check the heart to beat ! 
Again could catch that glowing beam 
That ever sparkles from thine eyes — 
Could hear thy voice, so dear and sweet; 

Could dream of clays, when merely conning 

thee 
Aroused in me the sense of exstasy. 

O, wishing thy sleek hand to feel 
My burning brow — as vainly longed 

1 bring thy sweetness near to me ! 
O, wishing thy ripe lips to seal 

What I had kept of thee, that thronged 
My heart, and shone it tenderly ! 
O, hoping that one hour thou wouldst speak — 
O, that thy brow would press, and burn my 
cheek ! ! 

O, Anne ! there rustled button-leaves — 
How drop by drop, touched the green moss. 
And how a silentness suffused 
Around ! and glory of warm eves ! 
How beauteous : grieve my fated loss 
Where damsels, knights, and nobles used 
To dally there — or lovers hid, when night 
Reigned golden — and the palace-panes were 
bright ! 



460 P e m s 

O, Anne ! the palace-garden turned 

Into its state of olden days : 

When long-robed duchesses, and earls, 

And marquises, and heads, who earned 

Their livelihood by comic-plays — 

And priests, and painters with long curls, 

x\nd counts, and marchionesses spent their 
hours 

Parading up and down — by fount and flowers. 



When Louis followed Louis ; when 
Those sculptured founts, those marbles fair 
Were royal property ! those aisles 
Of trees had shaded crowned men — 
And when gay festival was there — 
With menuet, and blooming smiles — 
O, when a kingdom brought to birth such state 
When thrones were glorious — yet insidiate ! 



O, gardens ! where the palace stands ! 

What lavishment of kings you be ! 

Albeit glowing in your glory — 

Albeit w T orks by genius-hands 

Do beautify your vanity, 

You tell but one long, tedious story : 
A royal garden — selfishness proposed ! 
A king's great doing! — whether all opposed? 



Poems 461 

O, Anne ! and far to other shores 
To other homes my mind was blown — 
America — (thou art its rose!) 
With independent, free, wide lores, 
As morn-cloud, all before me shone — 
Where Liberty forever blows ! 

O, Anne ! And while the purls drooped my sad 
head, 

Through all the airs a song awoke — and said : 

May those columns be, 

With their Doric capitals, fair — 
May the majesty 

Of that sculptured palace be rare; 
If high art contributed to those groves — 
Or sweet founts splashed what a young love- 
pair loves — 

Let it be, 
'Tis all 
Vanity ! 
A thrall 
To the pomp of wealth, to the word of pride 
Had designed those paths — while the poor 
heart sighed ! 
It is so, 

A king, 
In his glow, 
Could bring 
To his wish of splendor such selfish weal — 
And not fret for people who penury feel ! 



462 P o e m s 

Let it be, 

It is! 
Sing to me 
But this: 
Let me breathe where blows fairest Liberty ! 
Where all heaves to voices of Equity ! 
In a land where strong are the weak — 
And the strong kiss brows of the weak ! 
In that land that glows — 
(Where no mortal goes — ) 
In such fumes of health, where large Nature 

sways ! 
Where huge Truth and Justice embalm the 
still days ! 
O, a land where need is not known — 
Where this greed to loving has grown ! 
Where the charms of tepid airs all invite 
To be joying wanton at day or night! 
For me banners waving in freedom's reign ! 
Bring me back my country's own charm again ! 
Where the brave are free, and the free may 

save! 
And a Soul wafts perfume to all a tune ! 
Where the goal is love — and a meed the grave ! 
And this Life is sweet as a blossomed June ! 

Anne ! that song clung to me, as strains 
Heard in some grand cathedral-hall ! 
It would not leave my memory — 
As songs the frank-faced Highland-swains 



Poems 463 

Keep in their hearts, by cote or fall — 
So was that noble melody ! 
And while mine eye saw the sear leaves be 

blown — 
The autumn-whispers sang in undertone : 
Let it be, 

'Tis all 
Vanity ! 
A thrall 
To the pride of glow, to the gust of power 
Built those basilisks, with their lawn and 
bower — 

Let it be, 
It is! 
Sing to me 
But this : 

Give me Nature's love! Give me Freedom's 

soul ! 
Let kind aid be law ! And stern Truth life's 
goal ! 
And a land where Liberty garlands all ! 

Where the free and brave 
But to God for succor, and justice call — 
Who is Life and Grave ! 

And there the minnows live in fries : 
Now stealing under russet leaves — 
Now basset they where twigs float slow — 
Or where there is a glimpse of skies — 



464 Poems 

As fly-swarms through still summer eves, 

As bees that bumble to and fro 
Before their oak-tree hive. Then hide apace — 
Then crowd, to dimple the sheld corner's face ! 

And there the trickling drop doth spread 
A veil of plaintive murmuring — 
As on the banks of Nubian-Nile 
The Sphynx-hid harpers shed : 
When Gunga's daughters scent, and sing 
So low, that tepid airs but smile. 
And there I hear the silentness of woods — 
I fall on lawns of many dreamy moods ! 

And there a purl seems as a fell — 
A basin as a moss-greened pool — 
A calm as close in thickets warm — 
O, there the leaves, and breezes tell 
What loveth but the grove so cool — 
When in the glitter gold-bees swarm ! 
O, there a transport meditative swelleth — 
As o'er a flowered moss the brooklet welleth ! 

And marbles orn a fountain-head — 
Fair statuary : bringing tales 
Of hours, when by temples lone 
Shy maidens incense offered — 
By Delphos — or in Cretan vales — 
Where Helios as a godhead shone ! 
There languishes a maid in amorous sleep ! 



Poems 465 

A giant frightens ! Watermen stern balance 
keep! 



Around, the noisy streets are filled 
With hurried men, and women, used 
As slaves (O, in illumined times) 
Around, the houses now are silled 
With signs — and stores, by man abused, 
Ferment in hearts wild, petty crimes — 

O, where the State provides for poverty ! 

I found a cove as sweet as woods can be ! 



Around, the narrow streets and lanes 
Hide what, if brought to light, would seem 
Low pit of grovelling Satan-seed ! 
Around, the crippled beg for gains — 
The blind, by dogs led, can but dream ! 
And there the mercenary feed ! 

O, right in midst of city's ugliness, 

There sleeps for me, what rhyme may not 
express ! 



O, Anne ! And when I leave that nook — 
O, when a spell draws me to stay — 
And when I gaze again at fount — 
At leaves, like on some forest-brook — 
* At moss, and at the fish aplay — 
And list to murmurs, as by mount— 



466 P o e 111 s 

O, when awakening meditations break — 
There rings that spirit-song — its lays awake : 
Let it be, 
It is 
But the play of kings — that have killed the 

poor! 
And those buildings reared the revolting boor ! 
Sing to me 
. But this : 
Where the soul and wisdom shall pair 
And fond Nature reign as a sovereign fair — 

Where the free shall be 
As the wisest men, and shall guide the 
crowd ! 
Where no poverty 
Shall be stifling — but where each soul be 
proud ! 

Let it be, it is 
But the pride of crowns — what vain power 
wrought ! 

Sing to me but this : 
For me freedom wise ! with each soul to God ! 

O Anne, that nook I cherish now ! 

When weary, to its calm I go ! 

When there, that marble throngs in me : 

"How love requited blissful seems ! 
Him could I 'whisper day and night — 
O, Acis fond mine own ! 



Poems 467 

So was my fate turned sooth and light ! 
Upon his breast I fell in dreams — 
Him had I all alone I" 

O, what was grooving my stern brow ! 
O, how me thought of thee ! and woe 
Came round, and sudden misery ! 
But Anne ! A nook I found to soothe my sigh 
And when I tire 'tis there I cease to cry ! 

EPILOGUE. 

And ever find we lornful lovers some retreat — 
O, seeming as if angels sent us them, to bear 
That which doth eke from longing's over- 
due! 
And ever seems there some bright spirit, pure 

and sweet — 
To show us where we may regain when we 
despair — 
O, trust them ! Angels are with you, with 
you ! 

Paris (Dec. 19, 1886). 



P o e m s 469 

TO A VIRGIN. 

I. 
Thou supple shape to bewitch our mind — 
Why may I not round thee enwind 

Mine arm, fair-thrilled by all thy sweetness! 
As doth a snake thy body's girth 
Twists pliantly the while, in mirth, 

I try to clasp beauty's completeness ! 

Then, with a supplicating glance, 
That all my dreamings doth entrance, 

Why dost thou guard thy maiden-beauty? 
Perchance it must be Love's design 
To keep thee pure, and all divine, 

That timidness is girl's sweet duty. 

Thou virgin ! whose fair suppleness 
Eludes my Pan-clasp and its stress ; 

'Tis well — but one fair future morning 
Such sense will change to blooming love — 
And all thy guafdings sweet will prove, 

When thou thy lover art adoring! 

So bend thy flexible shape so fair — 
As reeds bend to June's wanton air — 

I'll think you're coy, sweet Syrinx, fleeing 
And from thy timidness I'll shape as he 
Who clasped a weed, sweet melody, 

Praising shy virgin's supple being ! 



470 Poems 

ii. 

Pink roses are thy velvet cheeks, 
On whom thy heart's flash mantles sweetly. 
As on blue skies the pink-hued streaks 
So about thine eyes pink hues live meetly. 
Oh ! for a kiss upon those hills 
Where rose's glow each crevice fills ! 

But who hath touched a fragrant flower 
To catch a butterfly, mel-sipping? 

As soon as thought within our power. 

Away 'tis — where pool-blooms are dripping. 

So when I try to kiss thee, sweet — 

Thy lips will ne'er my own lips meet ! 

Coy, shy, — elusive virgin, thou ! 

'Twas nature made thee supple, evasive. 
That man should task himself to bow 

Before sweetness, and be persuasive. 
Then will I try to kiss those hills — 
Such all my being with rapture fills ! 

in. 
Oh! though I try an age 

Methinks those rosy cheeks I ne'er can kiss. 
For she doth bend askant from this my bliss, 
As* snake, beneath sweet sage ! 
Ay, snake thou art — for scarce 

Have I thee round my arm, thou slippest 
fleet 



Poems 471 

With all thy supple body at my feet : 
As snake beneath gold furze ! 

And when I push my lips 

Towards those cheeks aflame ! — thy bend- 
ing head 
Frustrates their laboring aim — and, all in- 
stead, 
I hold thy elusive hips ! 

So think I who is there 

That can surprise thee on thy luscious lips 
For all thy body bends — and writhes and 
slips : 

As snake in summer's lair ! 

VII. 

Thy neck, erst shy and bending low, 
Turn up — so I may kiss thy rare lips' glow ! 
Before upon thy bosom's swell 
Thy lip's rich wine thou didst keep well — 
But now that thou hast pressed my hand, 
Thy lips give up to me their fulgent flavors 
bland ! 

O ! change, like rigorous, icy fields 

To succulent June, when a virgin yields ! 

Aft' long escaping kiss, embrace, 

By sweet surrendering all her grace — 

So with persuasive Zephyrs blowing, 



47 2 P o e m s 

The season yields to spring so woods and 
plains are glowing! 

O flexible neck, that bending first 
Upon thy bosom now love's sweet thirst 
Doth woo it, so to rise till all my zest 
Breathes on thy lips love's fair behest — ' 
And though once thou didst flee my kiss 
Xow slowly yearnest thou to share such bliss ! 

VIII. 

Sicilian Zephyrs love no marble white — 

'Tis cold, and so inanimate — 
But they the fragrant flowers freight 
With breath, because they swing in pure de- 
light- 
Responsive to the sway 
The breezes wield through all the day ! 

'Twas yesterday my lips to thine I pressed — 

O tenderly like Zephyr to rose. 

That by rare myth-girt ocean blows — 
But thine were like a bloom, all-uncaressed, 

By brook-loved breeze — timid, 

Thy sweet responding joy lay still far-hid! 

This morn thy lips,- thy body's sinuousness 
Yielded to mine — and oh, the feeling, 
When I felt all thy nature reeling — 



Poems 473 

Thou softly clinging close to my lips' stress — 
Ling'ring with my own kiss — 
Till either's tepidness wrought tender bliss ! 



Such feeling when her fragrant, tepid lips 
Press softly unto mine aglow — 
'Tis love's sweet answer — love wrought it 
so ! 
Then sways she her round, supple limbs and 
hips 
And, lost in mel-sweet dream, 
She is to me like lily to the stream ! 



Where there is no return of passion or love 
The deepest kiss is never sweet, 
But when her lips my firelips meet 

And softly press — oh ! it is like in grove 
When Zephyrs the rose doth kiss : 
It yields — swings back the Zephyr's bliss ! 



IX. 

Say ! is it day-like, that she stays 

Quite close to me — with all my body, sways — 

As doth a rose-bloom on a wave ! 
Close to my breast her bosom dreams — 
Her lips press fondly — and it seems 

As doth a flower on billow, we both behave ! 



474 P* o e m s 

Her supple sweetness sways and bends 

As my own body with her ound form blends. 

Her lips pout — oh ! a rose in blossom ! 

As gemny boughs swing up in scents 

Of June-wooed airs — her merriments — 

So swings my body to her swelling bosom ! 

Can it be true unyielding maids 
Change so that them quick yielding soft per- 
vades ! 
So now, like rose-bloom on a wave 
She is to me — her pink blush form 
Answers to mine in tepid storm ! 
And as a bloom in the wind we both behave ! 



X. 

Her face — her face angelic fair — 

With rose-bloom cheeks — and fine cut nose — 

With lips voluptuous — pinks live there — 

And chin so soft — and delicate— 

Ah, me ! must beauty know of fate — 

That face is like a rich, fresh rose ! 

But when I want to kiss — O change 
So magic in those features fine ! 
The languors of her blue eyes range 
Upon each curve — each hill, each swell — 
As though her soul were visible 
Upon that face, sweet and divine ! 



Poems 475 

When upward turned to me — with soft, 
Sweet yearning in her heaven-eyes — 
That face hath thrilled me — oh ! how oft ! 
So wondrous, languorous, and fair — 
It spells me — so I press it there — 
Kiss till, all passionate, she sighs ! 



XI. 

Each morn, each noon, each eve, each night, 

We kiss, each other deep and long — 
And oh ! her cheeks grow rosy bright 

And languour sings her lulling song ! 
So in the passion-flower arbor, do 
The doves who, steeped in fragrance, coo ! 
No more the coy — the bashful maid, 

But she loves my kiss as I hers — 
Could Daphne, in cool summer-shade, 

Kiss Chloris with more gentle stirs ! 
Than I that perfect mouth whose life gives me 
Its thrilling rose-wine now so willingly ! 



At morn we kiss — through the long day — 
When stars uprise from dusky skies — 

When we to slumbers hie away — 
She lets her lids fall on her eyes 

And pouts her rose-mouth — so I kiss her long, 

While languor sings to us her lulling song ! 



476 P o e m s 

XII. 

Would I try to touch her bosom — 
With my finger-tip alone — 

Bends she all her body's blossom 
And her sinuous shape is gone- 

O since in virginhood she is 

And only loves to kiss and kiss ! 



Sensitive is her sweet bosom 

Like a snow-flower — when a wren 

Doth alight upon that blossom — 
All the bloom is sentient then — 

So when her bosom is touched by me- 

Her body trembles electrically ! 



Would I touch her swelled bosom 

Quick she bends — her body shivers — 

She is like a wind-touched blossom : 
When the wind blows, how it quivers ! 

Oh ! since no virgins know such bliss — 

And only love to kiss and kiss ! 



XIII. 

I've won thy shy capriciousness 

All through my long persistency — 

I know that I would love thee less 
But that thou art my victory ! 



Poems 477 

Little by little the petals ope — 

By bland and fresh winds made to glow — 
So love I wooed by blossomy hope 

So tarry till I woo thee so! 

So longing poets woo the- Muse — 
At first she's not quick to inspire — 

But aft' persistency, there ooze 

Quiessant song-thoughts from her lyre. 

I know that had I wearied of thee 
Never would I have known thy kiss — 

And now I know my victory — 

We both are drowned in either's bliss ! 



XIV. 

There are two chords strung either side 
Her neck so velvet rosy sweet — 

In them all passions — feelings meet 
That in her body young abide ! 

Let but a Zephyr-touch thy finger press — 

And lo ! a thrill runs through her loveliness. 

Two chords so vibrant that to blow 
Upon one, all her body quivers — 

And passion is a-stir — and shivers — 
Like lightning she of love doth know — 

Oh ! that one day both chords will calous be 

And passion lose its first felicity ! 



478 P o e ni s 

'Tis well to know such — so we may 

Tell if she be a virgin true — 
Greater the thrill — more love for you — 

Less thrills, a sign she knows man's way — 
So will I touch those chords alive ! to tell 
She is a virgin all-adorable ! 

xv. 

On cold, cold days I play a game 

She loves not all too well — 
My finger tips doth flash a flame 

Of saltern fire — a spell! 
Ay 'tis tlr electric spark, that from my heated 

clay, 
At contact with her cheek doth flash away ! 

She doth affright — with large blue eyes 

Looks at me though I were 
In league with hidden powers of skies 

In short — a sorcerer — 
She says like nettle-prickings feels her rosy 

cheek — 
Then pardonings follow — and we either's 
warm lips seek! 

Xot all too well she loved such game — 

My sparks burn on her lips — 
She says it tastes like salt that flame — 

Then I as a rose-bee sips 
Rich honey from the golden chalice deep 
So on her pressing lips mine own I keep ! 



Poems 479 

XVI. 

Sad day that brought salt-tears 

To thy blue eyes, my sweet ! — 
Some wronged thee — and their jeers 

Made all thy woe complete — 
So from those true, fair eyes sad tears did roll, 
While ah ! how deeply hurt were heart and 
soul ! 

Kind boon of God to let 

Thee weep — thy wrath to ease — 

Thine eyes were red and wet — 
So must thy anger cease — 

But we, strong men, have not a tear to shed — 

We knit our brow — mumble and curse instead. 

As though fair nature would 

Xot see her fairest work 
Grow furious — all she could 

Do such disgrace to shirk — 
She gave to virgins — women tears that flow, 
At the least slight or anger — or drear woe ! 

Xot long I saw thee weep 

But pressed my lips on those 
Two moistening eyes, that keep 

A bed for all thy woes 
To flow in — so thy heart be emptied quite 
Of streams depressing — then to dwell delight ! 



480 P e m s 

A blessing are salt-tears 

To virgin's tender heart — 
Then thoughts of slights, of jeers 

Aft' weeping slowly, depart — 
But we, strong men, must linger with our woe. 
We have no tears that soothingly could flow ! 

Her sweetest work art thou 

My honey-lipped maid — 
And Nature said a vow 

In Eden-garden's shade — 
That so to keep from fury virgins fair 
Salt-tears that soothe her woes, dwell ever 
there ! 



XVII. 

What tends to draw us both together — 
Though now we may not speak — 

A feeling rare like balmy weather 
Compels us each to seek — 

And when we meet — oh ! what does so ordain 

That to thy lips I must press mine again ! 



It is the sense of June-loved breezes 
When they do fondle flowers — 

At seeing them their love increases 
They sway to stranger powers — 

And rock the eglantines or vervains low 

Before they all away to vapors flow ! 



Poems 481 

So must I — though I would not linger — 

En wind thee in my arm — 
And let thee bite my rose-flushed finger 

While we grow bland and warm — 
For so it is that Nature loves our bliss — 
And scoldeth never when we deeply kiss ! 



XVIII. 

Sweeter than a Waterloo 
The hours when we fair virgins woo — 
There's no death — no damage done, 
But rich life and joy are won! 
Glorious is the banner's blowing 
When sweet kissing.' s boon is glowing ! 

So this rare and radiant morn 
Affection in thy kiss was born — 
Thou wast peeping through the door 
While I wrote strange poet-lore — 
When I asked thee : kiss me sweetly — 
And thou didst, with ripe lips, meetly! 

Oh ! more glorious than a crown 
Is the virgin's kiss — her own — 
There's 10 state — no country's woe — 
All our soul, so sad once, glows — 
Sweeter than a victor's feeling 
Is a kiss — and passion's reeling ! 



482 Poems 

XIX. 

All the while I kissed her lips — 
Pressed my loins 'gainst her bloomed hips. 
She was learning how to kiss — 
Knowing there was sweeter bliss 
The way I pressed my lips to hers 
Creating in her dulcet stirs ! 

Oh ! this mom she pressed my lips- 
Pressed my loins with her sweet hips 
As I did to her when kiss 
Brought to her such thrilling bliss 
I taught her how to kiss so sweet — 
Now her stray kiss is all complete. 

Fondest recompense to me 

Is that kiss reflecting free 

All the manner of mine own — 

Then I clasp her — when alone ! — 

And oh! I hug her till she cries — 

For bliss in my embracement lies ! 

xx. 

Though Pluvius wailed o'er tower and spire — 
A thousand individual drops of water 

Fell down from ashy skies — sweet fire 

Of passion ran 'twixt us two — and rills of 
laughter — 

And in her fair deportment she 

Descried new passion-love for me ! 



Poems 483 

While in dream-fondling, my nose-tip 
Flashed 'gainst her sweeter one — at once she 

shivers, 
Exclaiming: Stranger than from lip 

Of thine — when on my nose thy nose-tip 

quivers 
I feel as though I would to rave — 
For thy warm kiss would ever crave ! 

Oh! virgin — sweet to learn from thee 

New passion-love — unknown to pious peo- 
ple — 

For God it was who made love's glee 

Him must we praise from tower and steeple, 

That when I touch thy nose-tip fair — 

Flash like, desire ungoverned laughs in there ! 

Though winter now sheds tears that show 
He must relent to spring his cold dominion — 

From thee, rose-virgin — do I know 

New passion-love — fair love's quaint mys- 
tic minion — 

Upon thy nose-tip a spark doth dwell — 

When touched, makes thee feel passion's spell ! 

XXI. 

That face — that face — that changes fleet 
When both our kisses meet — 
Will never from my memory — 
For that I treasure thee ! 



484 Poems 

What mystic powers are in bond 
When we grow both so fond 
Of either's pressure and live kiss 
To change thy face like this : 



Thy open eyes their lids let fall — 

Thy head unborne is thrall 

To powers that droop the flower-crown — 

O'er all thy face sleep-hues are blown — 

And all thy thoughts and moods seem wholly 

Like signs of melancholy — 

Yet all the muscles of thy face 

Grow radiant with soft grace — 

As though a veil that fitted there 

Lay languidly and fair ! 



Say, say, dost thou feel how thine eyes 

Grow sleepy — dost surmise 

How slowly shifts a spread of sense 

O'er thee — thou knowest not whence — 

Can'st thou within thee feel the change 

When dream-veils o'er thee range — 

Or is it only felt by me 

Who, passion-lost, sees thee — 

What mystic powers do sweets possess thee 

When I kiss thee and caress thee ! 

Oh ; could'st thou see thy face change so — 

More would thy pink cheeks glow ! 



Poems 485 

That face, that face, transfigured fair 
When passion thrilleth there — 
Will never from my memory — 
Therefore I treasure thee ! 



XXII. 

This noon thy face exhaled a fragrant warmth, 

Me 'twas delighting potently — 

As though I kissed and smelled magnolias 

Within the summer's spicy morn — 

Ah ! rare and rosy cheeks that oozed such scent 

With heat suffused — to kiss was ravishment ! 



And ravished grew I — bathing all my face 

In that glow-fragrance as I bathed 

Myself in tepid pools rich redolent 

With hundred radiant roses full — 

I lost control — kissed madly thy soft cheek — 

Pressed thee so fondly that we could not speak. 



What magic gave to thee such fragrant heat — 

I felt it on my face — I smelt 

Its perfume — then its magic sped through me ; 

What could I do but kiss and press — 

So was it He who scent gave to the rose, 

Let passion rise in warm fragrant overflows ! 



486 Poems 

XXIII. 

Oh ! let me sing of thee, while bale 
Would wind around this lover's tale — 

For so it is — 
This sordid world, promulging priest-laws, aim 
By strong defending others, play their own 
sweet game — 

To none amiss — 
Of unperturbed love-dream's bliss ! 



Oh ! let them do — sweet secresy is blessed 

By Angel's voice — 
We may yet dream and kiss and win each day 
Our longing's goal — and laugh and be agay — 

And may rejoice 
That God hath to the lovers ever pleasure 

given — 
There's aye a means to meet, and be love- 
driven 
If either knoweth either's choice ! 
So sweet ! fear naught — and be of me caressed ! 



Oh ! though they do forbid that we should 

speak 
Together, sweet ! — I shall seek thy pink cheek 

And print a kiss — 
For thou art grown so fond of me — thou must 

kiss well 



Poems 487 

And seek within my arms' caressing passion's 
spell 

Nor couldst thou miss 
That each day we feel love's rare bliss ! 



XXIV. 

Could tears roll down my cheek — 

They would disclose what I would speak — 

But cannot ! Virgin mine — I weep 

For thee — and all these love songs keep 

Till one far day the world may see 

That love may love all secretly! 



Once thou hast whispered low 

That thou hadst known sweet music's flow— 

And couldst perform. When at thy work — 

I in another room did shirk 

My minion-songs — and for thee played 

That piece so to thy heart arrayed ! 



My heart was touched. Oh ! world ! 
What cruel laws hast thou unfurled ! 
But Virgin mine; I'll play each day 
That song that makes thy heart so gay. 
May Heaven look down on thine ill-fate — 
If not, I'll make thy mind elate! 



488 Poems 

XXV. 

Last even when I kissed thee last 

Thy brow was knit — thy mood unfit — 
So that I played that piece thou lovest — 
With sentiment my touch was blent — 
Yet through the evening late — it is our fate — 

To never see each other — 
But this rare morning, aft' the sun, a rare car- 
nation 
Splurted through vapors grey — as though I 

were a brother. 
Thou toldest me that through the night 
Full flows of tears did wet thy pillow 7 white 
For that one simple tune 

Brought back to thee thy childhood's June — 
Streams fell upon the cheek through night's 

lone hours — 
That strain recalled thy golden days in flowery 

bowers — 
Then did I press thee to my breast 
Oh ! softly — yet intensely, for I felt 
As though near me my love had dwelt — 
I kissed thine eyes — thy lips and held thee 

warm 
And wished to shield thee from the world's low 

harm — 
O virgin, with thy tender heart, be gladdened 

now — 
Each day that tune will s moot he the hillocks on 

thy brow ! 



P o e m s 489 

XXVI. 

Thou choosest me for thy protector strong — 
Rare rosy virgin, with blue and knowing 

eyes — 
There stealeth one who thee would swift 
surprise 
And take from thee sweet virginhood through 

wrong — 
But I frustrate his low designs — and stay 
Near thee when he is nigh — then thou dost 

kiss 
Ale for it — thanking — loving me, I wis, 
Xestling, as though we had our nuptial-day ! 

The sweetest task for me is shielding thee — 
Oh ! glorious days of chivalry are past — 
But in thy virgin-mien I found at last 
One worthy for an act of chivalry — 

And thou like some dove fleeing preying 

birds, 
Dost trust me — thanking me with loving 
words ! 



xxvi 1. 
This morning, when no human life's abroad, 
The fiery dawn awoke me from my slumbers 
Long, rosy streaks o'er th' faded gold hori- 
zon 
High up a pink-touched grey — and I was 
awed ! 



490 P o e m s 

I dreamt of thee through all the long, dark 
night — 
I told thee — oh ! affectionately didst kiss me ; 
Then noon was past — and large soft flakes 
were falling — 
A grey rain-day aft' morning's dawn-red 
bright ! 

So change our lives too, ah ! my dear sweet 
virgin ! 

Soon, soon thy troubles like April-vicissi- 
tudes 

Will change for spring's flower-radiant 
fields and woods — 
So hope ! brave girl — I honor thee — yet wonder 

If sad temptations will assail thee ! — nay — 

That mouth that kissed me deep is true as 
May! 



XXVIII. 

Thou art a virgin — truest of the true — 
I intimated thou wouldst lure a man — 
At that thy heart grew grieved — vexed — 
now you can 
Have no more kisses from me — though you 

sue ! 
Then no kiss could I capture from thy mouth — 
Then felt I how some tears would gather 
slow 



Poems 491 

Upon my eye — my heart felt stung with woe 
I could not smile, but seemed like one in 

drouth ! 
How could I sleep with all thine anger deep 
Like coiling snakes about my sensitive heart ! 
Then sought I for thee — pleaded — oh ! thou 
art — 
Dear virgin, worthy that I fair nighthood keep, 
For thou didst'Weep — then kissed I deep and 

long ! 
Both of us then could sleep — resing love's 
song! 



XXIX. 

O do not love 
For love is pain — 
As round some flower in a grove 
Twines some black vine of bane ! 



While loving true, 

Both hearts are oceans 
Commingling sweetly — each for each doth sue, 
One quarrel — oh ! the saltern wild emotions ! 

That tear my heart — 

And tears would flow — 
For minutes all our love is torn apart 
Then is there pain that biteth — harmeth so ! 



492 P o e m s 

Yet reconciled — 

Our love is sweet — 
We both are by a deeper kiss beguiled 
Our lips with richer fonder fervor meet. 

O love ye on 

For love is fair — 
And though a quarrel brings dissension — 
The making-up is sweet as Heaven rare ! 

xxx. 
How strange yet sweeter than a bunch of flow- 
ers 
Given to one as pledge of fond affection 
It is to hear from thee thy dream's delec- 
tion 
In which myself had sweetened thy dream- 
hours — 
And then for me to tell thee that sweet powers 
Had let me see thee through my dream's 

evection 
Oh ! both had dreamt without either's de- 
tection 
Of either, while sleep rained her magic show- 
ers ! 

What mystic means are there to image up, 
Thro' sleep, thy face, thy kiss, thy embrac- 
ing shape — 

And, in thy slumbers, me to see ! What cup 
Given by mystery for us to drink contains 



Poems 493 

Such liquid, showing thee — who will not es- 
cape 
Through dreams, till morning sings her 
roseate strains ! 



XXXI. 

I held her in my arm — our lips they played 
In amorous weal till we were love-en- 
wound — 
But she seemed pale from woe — so all dis- 
mayed — 
From out her eyes quick tears fell to the 
ground — 

They could not cease to purl for me who told 

Her that departure soon would separate 
Us two — she seemed a flower of red and gold 
That dreams by rills at day, but, when 'tis 
late, 
At moon-rise, then sweet dewdrops ooze alway 
So tears streamed forth so uncontrolled from 
her eyes 
All for myself — ah ! me ! had love sweet sway 
In her dear heart — my thoughts would so 
surmise — 
But though I told her cease her weeping so — - 
I held her while sweet tears of love would 
flow ! 



494 Poems 



XXXII. 

Sweet confidence has blossomed in her 

She tells her secrets deep to me, 
O now 'tis but a whisper to win her 

But I must live yet lone and free — 
She told me how perplexed her heart would 

beat, 
A man loved her — but she to him could not be 
sweet. 



So is it with my own love-story — 
I love my Lydia — but she not me — 

My virgin asks ; explanatory 

Answers won't make both hearts agree — 

That is a fault in nature — love is full of whims. 

'Tis rare that love tw T o hearts on one sweet 
canvas limns ! 



But she, my virgin, tells her plaining 

To me — oh ! had she love for me ! 
Again I brake a heart — 'tis raining 

Within a soul once thrilled with glee ! 
O virgin — if thou dost not love him — trust to 

love — 
And wait till thy heart yearns for one who'll 
worthy prove ! 



P o e m s 495 

XXXIII. 
THOSE VIOLET EYES. 

Those violet-eyes, those violet-eyes, 

They will not aye away — 
So fairy-blue like temperate skies 

At death of glorious day — 
They gazed at me — and spread sweet love 

around 
Then was the air filled with rare dulcet sound 

Like violets peeping in the shade 
Where sweet-brier bushes blow — 

Fair violets for the dreamer made 
Where glassy waters flow — 

So were those eyes round whom those cheeks 
of thine 

Were like the wild fair blooms of eglantine. 

Soft love they shed on life's dark dream — 

Like cool breeze in hot June — 
Then would new bliss within me stream — 

My life was all atune — 
I swore to love thee, and thy noble heart — 
To keep by me love's thrilling roseate dart ! 

Soft violet eyes, their gaze so true 

Assured me of thy love — 
Oh ! eyes of tender violet-hue 

That grow in mossy grove — 



496 • Poem s 

That long deep peer within my heart and soul 
Resolved me to make thee love's dearest goal ! 



Those violet eyes, those violet eyes, 

They will not all away — 
Alone, I dream of them — and sighs 

Of longing fill the day — 
For since they gazed with love at me, I swore 
To make their true gaze mine for evermore ! 



xxxv. 
Her whole fair face is like a rose, 

Her eyes are hued as veins therein — 
Xot as the violet dark 

But light as is the rose's vein 
When dew-drops whisper: "Hark! 
" 'Tis morning sings her roscid strain ! 

And birds their lays begin 
And daylight like a flower blows ! 



XXXVI. 

Her lips, so rare rose-petal fresh, 
Their charms not all may know — 

Only when caught in Love's bright mesh 
Then they their lusciousness will show — 

O lush as pomegranate juice 

And sweet as honey of the rose — 



Poems 497 

I munch them — and their flavor choose 

When steeped in many woes — 
For they have magic all to kill 

Save Love that freshens in their thrill — 
So all may know not her lush cherry-lips 

Save he who from her love forever sips ! 



XXXIV. 

THE ROSE HATH LEFT. 

The rose hath left — 

And put a cleft 
Within the perfect rondure of my thoughts. 

And I am grieving — 

For she was dear — 

Wept many a tear 
For me who pressed her to my heart — 

Without deceiving ! 



Xow she is gone — 

So I'm alone — 
With sweetest memories in my mind, 

With all her kisses 

Yet warm and fresh, 

Her rosy flesh 
Under my lingering fingers then — 

And tender blisses. 



498 



Poems 



The rose hath left — 

And put a cleft 
Within the harmonious rondure of my soul. 

And she is weeping ! 

Weeping for me 

So silently 
That all her distant tears I feel — 

My loss are steeping. 

(1892) 




Poems 499' 

THE CRUELTY OF MONEY. 

A SHORT BALLAD. 

(Let money alone, when Love comes laden 

zvith flowers — 
(Love's voice must lawful prove, thro all of 

life's fair hoars!) 

There dwelled a loyal man, so fair to see — 
He loved a lass in years when the almond- 
blooms fall to the ground — 
They swore sweet troth — and were to married 
be 
Next season a month with song to cheer and 
merry wedlock sound. 
(Let money alone, when love is at heart, 
and constancy smiles!) 

But came a day, when his coffers grew slim 
and tight — 
He had to forego the near bliss to wreathe 
the orange-garland fair; 
He tried amain to regain his treasure — but no 
main and might 
Would show him to affluence — he soon fell 
prone before despair! 
(Love's voice should join two lovers may 
he be poor or nay the whiles!) 



500 P o e m s 

They said he should wait to wed till his purse 
grew heavy again — 
But he loved her so well, he could not bear 
the torture to live a year — 
So one day he despaired — and freed himself of 
all pain 
He shot himself — and she was left unwed, 
alone with sad tear and tear ! 
(Let money alone, when sweet Love 

wreathes her garlands in bliss — 
(Love's voice must rule — and sw r eet af- 
fection must feel her deep kiss!) 

ENVOI. 

Oh ! man ! forswear thy demoniac lust for 
gold— 
When two hearts love — no money should 
keep them away ; 
Let them marry — two joined may work to earn 
their bread — 
I: tortured too long — such life follows self- 
destruction's tread. 

(Sept. 16, 1907.) 



P o e m s 501 



MARRIAGES. 

A SONG. 

O ! woman ! wary be when a wooer wends his 
way — 
And lingers by your heart's so lovely lawn — 
Oh ! listen to his lute-songs and his magic lay 
That sing to birth for you love's roseate 
dawn : 
'Tis he who loves you, willing listener be — 
Scorn not his prayers — no other loves you 
so — 
He chose you from a thousand other souls ! 
Scorn not his prayers — he gives you love 
and glow ! 

Oh ! woman ! know this day that only true men 

sue 
With words of deep-felt love your mateship 

sweet to win — 
Xo man would seek your soul if honest love 

imbue 
Not all his being — to scorn such love is kin 

to sin : 
For he, who asks you, chose you; and would 

see 



502 Poems 

You happy in a home where honor holds fair 

sway. 
Say "Yes" ; and lead him to your soul's most 

sacred shrine ; 
Bask in his pure delight that you, his own, 

are his alway! 

Oh ! woman ! when a wooer whiles his hours 
near your ways — 
Sweet seek his every whisper ; make his mel- 
ody your own. 
Forsake him not — he wreathes you, sings his 
inmost lays 
With fervor but for you : you, whom he 
cherishes alone ! 
For he, who singled you from thousands, he 
will be 
The only man who loves you for your heart 
and soul ! 
Say : "Yes" ; and listen not to other men — he 
lives for you. 
Oh ! hand in hand, smile sweetly till life's 
glorious goal ! 

(Sept. 16, 1907.) 



Poems 503 

SOME MINDS. 

There are some minds, that, in their early 
years, 
Had known disastrous times or love-lorn 

days — 
Had dreamed high dreams that wilted to 
dismays, 
Had thought life was a smile but found sad 
tears. 

Oh ! shattered dreams — hopes blown awry — all, 
all 
Have made their mind seem like a lonely 

lake 
High in the cavernous mounts : where 
naught doth wake 
The solitude save one slow-spattering fall — 

So calm their mind — no ripple on its barm ; 
Deep, deep, as is that lake, their mind doth 

seem — 
Only when soft intrusion from bird's beak ; 
Or leaf, wind-floated, settling; so, when some 

speak, 
Sweet laughter calling, or a word : affectionate 

— warm — 
They smile a while — then calm calls them to 
nurse their dream ! 

(Sept. 16, 1907.) 



504 Poems 



THE SNOW. 

The snow, the snow : 

The slowly falling flakes ! 
How falls so solemnly the snow ; 

And solemn music makes : 
Like muttered prayers the nuns exalt 
To Alary, in cold cathedral vault ! 
The snow, the feathery snow ! 

But half the world doth see 
The snow, the light-fleeced snow ! 
What wondrous novelty 

'Twould be for Afric's race 
To gaze at the most solemn snow ! 
The snow, the mournful snow : 
Whose world-strown prophesy 
Tells : so the air of the round space 
When man will mould, and earth grow cold ! 
Oh ! the prophesy of the snow ! 
That shows a glimose of times 
When cools the southern glow — 
And all the round earth chimes 
Discordantly in snowy airs ; 
When man be frozen (like the flower 
That peeps through snow-bent grass!) 
And dies at the portentous hour 
When earth bears no sand-hour glass — ' 
And no fair flower-garment wears ! 
O the slowly falling snow— 



Poems 5°5 

As Time, descending slowly — 
From heaven on this our globe — 
Time, wafting us a record holy 
Wherewith we all our soul-aims probe! 

How beautiful the snow — 
That falleth when the curfew tolls ! 
When dusk clambers about the woods ; 
The landscape with her pall enfolds ! 

O then the evening breath 

Is quiet, like a praying maid, 
In adoration of the snow — 

That floateth, and fluttereth staid ; 
Foretells that white-robed Death, 
Like to a painted Angel's glow, 
Comes slowly to the goodly folk — 
Reaps gently — has no fiend-held yoke ! 

O the snow, the gently guided snow ! 
O the lily-hued stars of snow ! 
O the pale, dream-bearing snow ! 

Slowly falling, noiselessly, 

As the moments in eternity ! 

O so marvellously borne, 

Down the airs, so breeze-forlorn ! 

Flakes, that shape their bodies ever 

Star-like — like the dewdrops never — 

Never freezing faster, till they be 



506 Poems 

Like the circles 'neath the turret-eave, 
But remain so soft — to leave 
Nature shape their bodies free! 
Oh ! the flakes ! how wondrous — 
O the snow mysterious ! 
The foe to gently-dripping rain — 
Grim hatred to the mist at morn — 
It causeth to the Zephyr pain — 
And leaves lulled streamlet lorn. 
Still, rain its flood-blood is ; 
Gray mist was once its bliss — 
The Zephyr wooed the watery lea — 
The brooklet would its wild bed be ! 
O the mystery of the Power 
That from a tinkling, globuled shower 

At His Awe-Mood may fashion sweet 
Wet rain, to damp, cold sleet ; 
And ere the mind hath time to grow 
Create the starry sweetness of the snow ! 
O the oddly fashioned snow : 
Falling softly, noiselessly, 
As the moments in eternity — 
O the snow, the snow ! 

(i88 4 ) 



Poems 5°7 



AUTUMN! 

In coveys the meadow-butterflies had gathered, 

And gaily fluttered in the mellow sheen. 
A thousand whispered sweets to meadow-flow- 
ers — 
A score sang sweeter melodies atween. 

A wood-bird chirped still ditties to the pine- 
trees — 

A bee still sought a nectar-yielding flower ; 
A bushy tail fled the falcon in the blueness — 

Two lips drank bliss far in a colored bower ! 

To-day — at even-fall — in the dreary darkness, 
I gazed aghast thro' the sombre window- 
pane. 
Dark, dark the chilled landscape and the 
heavens 
The fire-horizon flushed a mournful strain ! 

In the west — high, high — shone a twinkling 
star so lonely — 
I shivered to see so cold and drear a sight. 
Lo ! like a huge, huge serpent, a dark, black 
form was floating ; 
Beneath the heavens, that hailed to weird- 
born Xight ! 



5 o8 



Poems 



It flew — and swiftly waved towards the South- 
sky ! — 
And lo ! I saw a flock of passage birds — 
Flying away — away — from the cold, dark Au- 
tumn 
To where the warm, blue band the wide- 
world girds!! 



O Month of Death ! how doleful paints thine 
aspect ! 
Oh ! like the gay birds, I would love to fly ! 
O, Month of Gloom and Woe ! how drear thine 
evenings ! 
Oh ! like the fire on thy heavens I would love 
to die. 

Ithaca, N. Y. (1883). 




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